


Kylo Ren One-Shots!

by starlight_searches



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:55:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 33,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22899118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlight_searches/pseuds/starlight_searches
Summary: Hello! I've started taking requests on my tumblr (starlightsearches) and here's the first one. I think I'll separate them by character, so all of the Kylo Ren requests will be added as separate chapters. Let me know what you think!
Relationships: Ben Solo | Kylo Ren/Reader, Ben Solo/You, Kylo Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/You
Comments: 39
Kudos: 135





	1. Not Going Anywhere

**Author's Note:**

> Can I request a fluffy Kylo X OC where they’re chasing their little toddler around Star Killer base? Pleaseeeee? 💕💕😘
> 
> Here’s my first request! I hope you guys like it; feel free to send in more 😌  
> Pairing: Kylo Ren X Female Reader  
> Warnings: This is probably a little more angst than you wanted, sorry about that 😬 But the ending is nice and fluffy!

“What do you mean you lost him?” You yell, and Ren puts a hand over your mouth, hoping no one outside of the supply closet heard you shouting. It’s cramped and too warm—only worsening Ren’s anxiety—which had built itself to a crescendo in the time it had taken to find you on the bridge and then convince you to leave your post. You brush his hand away, aggravated.

“I told you, he ran out the door. I couldn’t grab him fast enough.” Ren whispers, pained, “please help me.” Your mouth flattens into a line of frustration, contemplating the potential benefits and pitfalls of making him do it himself, and then you roll your eyes, sighing with exasperation.

“Fine, let’s go,” you shove him unceremoniously from the closet and back into the hallway, and two officers outside the door startle at his sudden appearance. For a moment they look like they might laugh, until they see your face, and instead they avert their eyes, suddenly absorbed with the screens of their data pads.

“Which way did he go?” You whisper to him, and Ren starts off down the hallway in what he thinks is the right direction. Others are watching as you make your way down the corridor, curious whispers following behind. 

People know, of course, about the two of you. That had been unavoidable. You had done your best to stay professional in the public eye after your relationship began, but nobody on the whole damn crew was capable of keeping their mouth shut, especially after your nine-month “special assignment” off-base. Still, privacy was necessary to the survival of your relationship, and for any sense of normalcy when working. Most crew members never even saw you in the same room, let alone exiting a closet together.

“I’m sorry,” Ren whispers, again. He can see your anger in your posture, the way you stomp down the hall, listening intently for any sign of your son.

“Don’t you think-”

“ _No_ ,” he cuts you off before you can finish. This is a conversation you’ve had before, and not one he’s interested in having again.

“I’m just saying,” you begin, “I could take him somewhere—somewhere safe—where he could grow up. Have a childhood. And then, later, when this is over . . .”

“You can’t leave.”

“Being on this base is not good for him, Ren.”

“Neither is growing up without a father.” He’s growling, anger bleeding through his words. You bite your lip and don’t respond. These talks never go well; Ren always ends up frustrated, and it’s worse this time because now he knows that you’re right. Maybe his son would be better off far away from him. Safer.

He’s still worried as the two of you walk: there are plenty of dangerous places a child could find themselves on the base. The armory, the hangar . . . the trash compactor. He forces himself to move faster, overtaking you quickly with his long stride. You feel it too, the panic, and grip his wrist in your fingers, a strange and unfamiliar show of affection for such a public space.

“Can you sense him?” You ask, running your thumb over the edge of his sleeve, finding your way to the skin beneath, but the panic won’t subside. He shakes his head, feeling helpless, and you pull him into an alcove.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” you whisper, bringing your hand to his face and rubbing the pad of your thumb over his cheek, “but we do need to find him. Can you?” Ren nods into your palm, calmed by your touch, and focuses outward, looking for his son. He’s easy to find once Ren has found focus: a small spark of joy amid the harshness and conflict of the base. Ren takes your hand in his, and pulls you in the right direction, the worry ebbing now that he has a clear destination. He pulls you to a stop in front of a door and punches in his access code, not waiting for it to open all the way before you both rush in.

Two sets of eyes stare back at you, their shock echoing their own, the silence in the room broken apart by pealing laughter. This is a Storm Trooper barrack, you realize immediately, the eyes belonging to a group of Troopers, KH-1317 and TZ-4390, in uniform but without their helmets. They look sheepish and avoid your gaze.

“Jaren!” You break from Ren, running to your son, pulling him out of the arms of the nearest Trooper. He giggles again, oblivious to the tension in the room, and you hold him close.

“Where did you find him?” You ask, and both Troopers relax infinitesimally, seeing that they are not in trouble. 

“We were doing our rounds and he came around the corner,” KH-1317 says, gesturing to her partner, who nods, “we didn’t know he was your kid.” There’s a pause, awkward, uncomfortable, as no one seems to know what to say next. You pull your son tighter in your arms, and he rests his head on your shoulder, tired from his exciting afternoon.

“Thank you,” you say, hesitantly, “for watching him.” This is a break from the normal order of things, a strangely human moment for all of you, and Ren’s not entirely comfortable with the scene unfolding before him. 

“It was no problem,” the other responds. She waves uncertainly to Jaren, who waves back tiredly, fighting to keep his eyelids open. You tug on Ren’s hand, surreptitiously, pulling him towards the door, and the two of you leave a bit embarrassed, but grateful.

The walk back to your quarters is better, almost peaceful, as Jaren dozes on your shoulder. Ren is feeling strange, the fear of losing his son gone now, leaving something soft and sentimental in its place. Gingerly, he places a hand on the curve of your spine, the connection so gentle you may not have noticed it, if you hadn’t outside of your quarters.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” you whisper, looking up at him with worry in your eyes. You’re drawing attention again, holding your child in your arms, and Ren knows that he’s only making it worse, but he needs to feel close to you right now. He solidifies the contact, pressing his hand more firmly into your back, and glares at the watching crew members who in turn avert their gaze.

You enter your chambers together, the room dark, and a little messy: clothes on the floor, and a few toys scattered around. You set Jaren in his crib and pull the blanket over him. He’s already asleep, soft pink lips pursed into a perfect _O_ , his dark, unruly hair brushing his eyebrows. Ren sees too much of himself in him. He sits on the bed and swallows hard, unable to look at you, now that you’re alone. Afraid of what you’re about to say.

He feels the indent of the mattress as you climb up behind him, running your hands through his hair with soft, even strokes. He sinks into you, instinctively, amazed that you still have the power to undo him with such a simple touch.

“I’m sorry.” Your chest vibrates against his back as you speak, and tears prick his eyes without warning. Ashamed, he turns away from you, pressing the heels of his hands into the sockets, hoping to keep the grief from spilling out. You move to him again, pulled in by his gravity, grabbing onto his wrists and uncovering his eyes. Your expression is delicate, and you run your hands over the tears on his cheeks, clearing them away. He melts against your touch, your lips ghosting over his forehead, down his temple, and then placing a soft kiss on his nose. He smiles, involuntarily.

“I don’t want to leave,” you say quietly, mouth resting against his ear now, “and I’m sorry I suggested it.”

“I don’t want you to go,” he wraps his arms around you, holds you to him, laying back on the mattress beneath you. You fall together, your head resting in the crook of his neck, breathing in time. Your fingers trace lazy shapes on his chest, and his breath hitches in response.

“I lost him,” he says, and he’s crying again, the tears running down his face and into his hair, “he could have gotten hurt, and it would have been my fault.”

“Things like that happen, Ren. You can’t blame yourself.” You sit up and look him in the eyes, deadly serious. “You’re a good father. He needs you.”

“I don’t want you to go,” he’s repeating himself, but he’s desperate. He can’t do this without you.

“We aren’t going anywhere.” You fold into each other, and he feels it. You mean it when you say you’ll stay.


	2. Verdant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could I please request a Hades and Persephone AU/ inspired piece for Kylo? I really think that aesthetic suits him so well 😍
> 
> Pairing: Hades! Kylo Ren X Persephone! Female Reader
> 
> AN: No warnings for this one, I don't think. It was really hard to write because I don't know anything about greek mythology, but I love the way it turned out 🥰

The field is verdant, wild, overflowing with flowers—the long grass kissing your ankles and the palms of your hands as you walk on your own. The warm sun strikes your skin, painting your field golden in the morning light, like the whole earth is yours to do with as you please. A false promise, as always. You sit gently in the clearing, flattening the greenery beneath you into a soft place to lay, stroking the tendrils of green earth sprouting beneath your fingers. A peaceful moment, maybe one too many.

You begin picking the flowers, your hands working of their own accord. Weaving the patterns is second-nature to you, and you pluck the blossoms up by their stems, choosing only the most fragrant, the most beautiful, the flawless work of your hand. _There’s freesia and daisy for innocence,_ you think to yourself, _and sweet pea for bliss. Peonies for compassion and hyacinth for playfulness._ Your hand stops, hovering over the asters. _A symbol of love_. You brush past them, grabbing some bluebells instead. It’s best not to think that way.

The crown is finished, and you admire it for a moment before placing it on your head. There’s a creek nearby, with still and shallow waters, and you wander over, taking in the full effect of your reflection. It’s truly lovely. If only there were someone else there to see it.

“Fit for a queen,” the voice startles you, deeper than any of the nymphs, who can’t be too far off. You jump, the crown falling from your head and into the water, and whirl to face the unknown visitor.

There’s a man standing before you, and his face goes rosey when you look at him. He’s tall, and strange, not like the others who inhabit this realm, or the humans, either: his hair is long and dark and falls over his face, skin dotted with freckles and so pale it’s almost translucent, even in the lemony light of the sun. But he’s soft to look at, all round pink lips and dark brown eyes, and a warm feeling finds its way into your chest.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says.

“Who are you?” you ask. He’s shifting nervously in the grass, looking over his shoulder, back the way he must have come. You’ve never seen him before—never _really_ seen any man before—and you have to wonder if all of them are just as timid.

“Some people call me Ren.” You hum in response. It’s almost like a joke.

“Some people call me Kore,” you say back, and he scrunches his nose in distaste.

“It doesn’t really suit you.”

“What does suit me, then?” Is this what flirting is? You hope so. It's making him nervous, and you like it.

“The crown you were wearing, certainly. I’m sorry that it’s gone.”

“Don’t be, I make them all the time.” You’re feeling guilty, suddenly, and you try to move past him. You’ve talked for too long already. If your mother found out . . .

“Please don’t go,” he says, grabbing you by the wrist. His hand is cold on your skin, but pleasant, like dipping your hand in the stream. He speaks again, “I was hoping you might . . . make me one of your crowns?”

“What will you give me in return?” you ask, and he hesitates.

“What do you want?” You don’t have to think before you respond. 

“A kiss.” You want to be nonchalant about it, but just saying it makes you blush, and you look away, hoping to hide it. You try to look at ease, sliding your hand into his and pulling him towards the flowers. You can’t look at him.

“A- a kiss?”

“Yes. I’ve never done it before. I want to know what it’s like.” He nods, and swallows hard, and you can feel his hand tremble in yours. So he wants it too.

You pull him into the densest part of the field, guiding him to the ground and sitting beside him, and then take a moment to study him in silence. He looks back, a little uncertain, but you can tell he loves the way you look at him.

“What are you doing?”

“Reading you,” you say, and he quirks an eyebrow in confusion, “I can’t just pick the flowers at random. All of them mean something. You have to choose the right ones to send the right message,” you explain in a low voice, gathering a few blossoms and beginning the crown. 

You can feel his eyes on you, less guarded now that your own are occupied, and his gaze sets you on fire, makes you want to melt into the ground and become one with the earth. Or maybe you want to melt into him, find yourselves so intertwined that he cannot look at you without seeing himself reflected back. The very idea of it thrills you, and you scold yourself half-heartedly. It does you no good to think that way.

“We’ll start with amaryllis, for pride and determination. They make a lovely base. And then we’ll add some astilbe. They symbolize patience, waiting.” You look at him, and something new occurs to you.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve seen me?” You phrase it like a question, but you know it’s true before he confirms it. The flowers don’t lie.

“I found your field a little while ago,” he admits, “but I didn’t dare approach you until today.”

“Why?” You shiver at his admission, your eyes on him, not bothering to look at the crown in your hands, stringing together the purple asters and lilacs on memory alone.

“You’re-” he starts, and swallows before continuing, “a bit intimidating,” and you laugh, a sweet, pealing sound that brings a tender smile to his face.

“Intimidating. Me? You must be joking,” the crown is almost done. You fill in the gaps with some dahlias, add a few chrysanthemums, and admire your work.

“Yes, intimidating. Regal, even.” You move onto your knees, place the crown on his head, leaning over him where he sits. The high grass is shielding you from the rest of the world—a small private place for secret acts. Against your better judgement, you bring your hands down, running them over his hair, brush the soft strands into place beneath the flowers, and he catches one of your wrists in his hand, bringing it close to his lips, his breath brushing your skin and sending a blaze through your veins.

“What made you change your mind?” You’re whispering without thinking about it; the moment feels sacred and you’re terrified of desecrating it. He presses his lips to the inside of your wrist, and for a moment, the world stops.

“How do I look?” He dodges the question, but you can’t ask it again, can’t do anything but stare at him, drinking him in. His apprehension from earlier is gone, and now he’s permissive, attentive. Tuned into your heavy breathing, the hammering of your heart.

“Beautiful.” It’s true. The crown is nice, but it’s nothing compared to his radiance. His long eyelashes catch the light of the sun as he looks down, pleased by the compliment.

“My payment?” It sounds desperate because it is. What had started as mild curiosity had turned into full-blown _need_ , clawing at your insides like you’ll die if he doesn’t give you what you’ve asked for.

“If you insist.” He takes your face in both of his hands, gently, like a prayer. You’re not breathing, and you can’t remember how, can only focus on the shrinking distance between his face and yours. Somehow it’s impossibly fast and painfully slow, and then your lips meet, and everything is as it should be.

The contact sets you ablaze, and you pounce on him—you can’t help it—knocking him to the ground beneath you. It’s like you’re starving, possessed, consumed by him. The kiss is sloppy, on your part, at least—but you can’t get enough of it, running your hands through his hair, pulling him close. You’ll never get enough of _him_.

He’s still beneath you, unmoving, and for a moment you worry that you’ve gone too far and you sit up, embarrassed. He follows, a little dazed, a dopey and vulnerable look on his face. You knocked the crown from his head with your urgency, and some of the flowers were crushed beneath him in the fall. You resist the urge to brush up against him again, and pick it up, run your hands over the blossoms, reviving them and avoiding his gaze.

“What was _that_?” he asks, but you don’t look up, handing him the crown back in shame. The evidence of your failure is gone, the flowers restored to their original perfection, but the guilt runs deep in you, until it is replaced by the sensation of his hand on your jaw as he pulls your gaze to meet his. His touch awakens something in you, and you know you’ll never get enough of it; you want to feel him everywhere. Which makes what you’re about to do all the more difficult.

“I know who you are.” You say it, even though you know it will ruin everything. Purple asters and chrysanthemums. The flowers don’t lie.

“When can I see you again?” He looks a little pained, now that you’ve caught him, but there’s a want there too.

“Never.” You were right all along. It does you no good to feel this way. All you’d ever know is heartache.

“Please,” he begs.

“This field, this realm—for all it’s beauty—is nothing but a gilded cage, and I am its sole prisoner. If you ever come back, my mother will find out, and she will be furious.”

“I have to see you again,” he’s insistent, and he runs his thumb over your bottom lip, his cool touch setting your world alight. You kiss him again, more gently this time, as a parting gift, and he pulls away too soon.

“Come with me,” he says. 

“You’re insane.” He’s breaking your heart all over again, and try as you might you can’t help but imagine a life with him, far beneath the earth, in a place where the sun never shines. It would be worth it, to stay by his side.

“I cannot leave you here alone.”

“Loneliness is all I have. It’s what I’m used to.”

“Come with me,” he offers you his hand this time, and you don’t have to think before you take it.


	3. A New Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please can i request a soulmate au for kylo x fem!reader because i just read the last chapter of office romance and im scared
> 
> No need to fear! Chapter 13 will be out Wednesday 🥰  
> Requests are still open ✨  
> Kylo Ren X female reader soulmate! AU  
> AN: Allusions to sex, but no other warnings here. This was so fun to write!

You’re standing at the foot of the bed in the quarters of Kylo Ren, the sheets a deep and familiar gray, and you’re gripped with a sudden terror. None of it had seemed real when it first happened, more like a game of pretend that you would play with the children, or a dream that you would soon wake up from. There had been no kind of panic in you—not when you had boarded the transport followed by a cadre of Storm Troopers, or before when your mother had held you so tightly in her arms you had thought they might break, whispering unintelligible goodbyes through her tears. Not even when you had run from your family’s small hut into the dim morning light and had your world thrown into screaming color at the sight of him, the electric red of his lightsaber burning into your retinas.

After that, leaving with him had been inevitable. How could you have refused? He had stood by silently while a Trooper explained to your parents that you were being taken, and that you would not be returning, and then you had packed up a few of your favorite belongings: your three nicest dresses, a small doll your mother had made for you when you were born, and your paints that your father had mixed, all in varying neutral shades that seemed dull and boring in comparison to all the new colors you could see. You had watched from the viewport as your planet disappeared behind you, the beautiful greens and blues turning into a jumbled mess just as you hit light speed, and it vanished from your sight. A single tear had rolled its way down your cheek, and that had been that.

You run one hand over the covers of the bed, testing the waters of your new life. The fabric is soft and cold—much nicer than anything you had ever seen before, and you feel terribly out of place. You’re the only spot of color in the room, and it’s easy to forget that you have sight now unless you’re looking down. The dress you’re wearing is one of your favorites, soft from years of wear and washing in the river, and you like it even more now that you’ve gained your new eyes. It’s a beautiful blue, like the sky was sometimes, your mother had said, and you sit on the edge of the bed and close your eyes, trying to imagine that you’re somewhere familiar, lying on your back in the tall grass, the heavens above you awash in the same color.

The door slides open with a mechanical whir, and you jump from your seat, embarrassed. It’s him again. He enters silently, movements slow and intimidating, like a monster from a children’s story, and you’re not sure if you’ll ever get used to looking at someone so frightening. He’s carrying a few items in his arms, and he sets them down on a low table. It’s fairly common for people who are rich or powerful to hunt down their soulmates, but you don’t think that wasn’t the case for Kylo Ren. He seems unprepared to have you here, a little shell shocked even, but it’s hard to tell exactly what he’s feeling behind the mask.

“I’ve brought you some clothes,” he says, and you hope he doesn’t see your distaste for the modulated timbre of his voice. “The refresher is over there so you can clean yourself off.”

“I don’t know how,” you say, and he looks up in surprise, “to use the sanisteam, I mean. There’s no running water where I’m from.” You explain yourself quickly, marveling at how stupid you’ve managed to make yourself sound. Your planet certainly isn’t the most technologically advanced—far from it—but you’ve made it seem like some kind of primitive hellscape where the people don’t bathe. He stares at you for a moment, and you worry he might be considering the idea of taking you back.

“I’ll go turn it on for you.” He says instead, and you breathe a sigh of relief. He disappears into the refresher, and you wander over to the table where he set the clothes. They’re black as well, and soft too, the material thin and slippery between your fingers. You recognize them as pajamas even though you’ve never owned a pair before, and you pull the fabric close to your face, running it along your cheek.

“It’s ready,” he says, and you pull the clothes away from you, a blush rising to your cheeks. You walk over to him and enter the refresher, the air thick and steamy already from the running water. He explains how the sanisteam works, and you focus intently on his instructions, making sure not to miss anything. The last thing you need is a refresher mishap to further cement yourself in his mind as some kind of helpless idiot.

“I’ll be outside,” he says and then makes his exit, the door closing behind him. You take a deep breath, and pull the fabric of your dress up and over your head.

The water is delightfully warm as it pours over you, and you scrub at your skin, vigorously removing what feels like years worth of dirt and grime with the various soaps and shampoos, luxuriating in the convenience of not having to heat your own water or bathe in the creek. It’s a supremely joyful moment, and before long you’re giggling as you watch the soapy water splash against the floor and run down the drain. You shut off the sanisteam as you had been instructed, and grab a towel from nearby. Sufficiently dry, you take the pajamas in your hand. That’s when you realize that he hadn’t given you anything to wear underneath.

Heat rises in your cheeks, and you fidget with the clothing. Was this a message of some kind? You know about what was supposed to go on between soulmates, of course, but … you didn’t know what he would expect from you. Would he be kind, if you said no? Soulmates weren’t supposed to hurt each other, but you had heard stories, still, and Kylo Ren seemed like the exception to every rule. You hadn’t even seen his face yet, only that awful mask, and the gravity of the moment sets you into a tailspin. You feel woefully unprepared for this.

 _Get a hold of yourself_ , you command, trying to quell the rising panic. There’s little that you can do now, and even if you don’t know him, you have to trust him. Determined, you put on the pajamas, ignoring the strange feeling of the fabric against all of you.

There’s a mirror on the wall behind you, and you take a moment to look at your reflection, seeing yourself in color for the first time. It’s strange, but pleasant too, like reuniting with an old friend, and you admire the color of your hair and eyes in your reflection. There’s quite a lot of skin visible, or at least more skin than you’re used to with your conservative and functional wardrobe. All of your dresses reach down to your ankles, but the bottoms that he provided are shorts, the hem brushing your mid-thigh. You know that if you think about it too much, you’ll end up hyperventilating on the refresher floor, and so you shut your eyes tight, turn away from the mirror and walk out.

You don’t recognize him when you leave the refresher, and Ren senses your trepidation for a moment before you realize that it’s still him, just without the mask. He’s arranged himself to sleep on the couch and you noticeably relax. He had felt your panic through the walls of refresher, and spent the last few minutes berating himself for forgetting to grab undergarments. The whole situation was embarrassing enough without having to worry that you might think he would take advantage of you.

“You can take the bed,” he says, looking determinedly at the wall next to you. He’s trying to avoid your gaze without drawing your attention; every time his eyes make contact with yours he feels a little sick. You’re very pretty, it hadn’t taken him long to recognize that, and soft in a way that he’s not used to, but it’s not your appearance that makes him so nervous. From the beginning he perceived that your calm demeanor, and wide, intelligent eyes with which you take in your surroundings. Every time you look, he feels like you can see right through him, even with the mask, and he wants very badly to know what you see. If you like what you see.

“You don’t have to do that,” you say, walking over to him and sitting on the edge of the couch, turning the power of your eyes on him in full force, “I’m not used to sleeping in a bed anyways. This might be more comfortable for me.” _You think he’s handsome_. He tries to turn away from your thoughts, but it’s difficult to find control in a moment like this, and the pleasure of the realization reaches deep into his bones.

“I insist,” he says, but you make no move to leave, and instead to rest your hand on top of his. His throat is tight when he continues, “Wouldn’t you like to sleep?”

“I’d like to get to know you,” you say, running your pointer finger in little circles over the back of his hand. Moments ago, Ren felt too tired to keep his eyes open, fighting against his desire to drift into darkness, but now he is wide awake, and he doesn’t think about resisting when you take his hand in yours and lead him to the bed.

You pull the covers out of the way and lie down, and he joins you on the other side, leaving enough room between you so that there’s no chance of contact on his part, accidental or not. The lights go out, and he feels a little relieved now that he’s hidden from your prying gaze. Your hand finds his once again under the covers, and it’s a little more bearable this time.

“This is better,” you say, and he relaxes.

“What do you want me to call you?” you ask, your voice low and supple in the darkness, like the sound an ocean makes when kissing the shore.

“Ren would be fine,” he whispers back, and you repeat it, the name sweeter when spoken from your lips. There is a long pause in your conversation, and for a moment he thinks you’ve fallen asleep, until you begin stroking the back of his hand again with lazy shapes. He mentally weighs the potential embarrassment of asking you to say his name again, and just the thought of it is thrilling.

“If there’s anything that you need, I can have it brought to the ship. Some clothes, maybe?” He says instead.

“That would be nice.” He can feel your hesitation for a moment, something that you’re not saying, and he squeezes your hand on instinct, but you still don’t speak.

“Anything else?” He asks, and then continues before you can respond, before he can decide against it, “I want you to be happy here.”

“I’m not sure, really. There’s so much I don’t know about life outside my home. But, if it’s not an inconvenience … some paints would be nice.”

“Of course.” You sit in silence, another long pause as he tries to ignore the feeling of your body only inches from his, the slight depression in the bed seems cavernous, and it’s taking quite a bit of effort to avoid falling into you and taking you in his arms.

“Ren?” you say, breaking the quiet; it fills him with joy to hear you speak his name again. He hums lowly to show that he is listening, and you turn on your side to face him. He can see your outline, your shadowy figure a little darker than the rest of the room. You pull yourself closer, your hands still intertwined, your arms parallel, and your hair tickles his shoulder, your breath grazes his neck.

“I think I will be happy here,” you say, resting your head on him gently, and for the first time he can remember, Kylo Ren sleeps peacefully.


	4. A New Life Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I liked the Kylo Ren soulmate AU so much and I got so much love on it that I decided to write a second part! I hope you guys like it!
> 
> Requests are still open ✨
> 
> Kylo Ren X female reader soulmate! AU Pt. 2 
> 
> AN: Mentions sex.

It’s only been a few days since you’ve boarded the _Finalizer,_ but you’ve certainly made yourself at home. So far, Ren has provided you many items that you requested, including an impressive collection of art supplies, a veritable rainbow of a wardrobe, and most eclectically, a maintenance jumpsuit, which you’re wearing right now, the top half tied around your waist over a sleeveless white shirt. 

It had been sweet, and strange to him at the time, when you asked for it, walking through the hangar as Ren took you on a tour of the ship. You had been wide-eyed, admiring the sleek, black organization of the Order, so different from the simple and slow life you had known. You watched the workers at their duties, and a few radar technicians had scurried by, trying to avoid Ren’s attention while still getting a good look at you; the ship was full of talk about his new “guest,” but that had been the first time you’d left his room, and everyone wanted to see.

“What are they wearing?” You had been asking questions non-stop, and Ren tried to answer as many as he could to the best of his abilities. He liked to watch as you listened, processing the information with the slightest of scowls while you internalized it.

“Jumpsuits,” he was grateful it was a question he could answer easily; the more difficult the question was to answer, the more focused you looked, and the more distracted he became by the shape of your brow and the set of your eyes, “standard issue.” Your gaze had followed behind the techs, the look becoming familiar to Ren already. He liked that he was learning to read you without using the force, that your subtle gestures were becoming windows for him to peek through even when no one else could.

“Could I have one?” You had asked, still so polite, despite the fact that he had never said no to one of your requests before. That didn’t mean he wasn’t confused.

“Why?” Compared to the other clothes you had requested, the jumpsuit was plain, and the green-gray color incredibly ugly. You had looked at him, lashes framing your pleading eyes, the corners of your mouth turned up into the slightest of smiles.

“Please?” That was all it took. Ren would give you anything you wanted. Asking something of you, though, was not something he felt prepared for.

“They want us to do what?” you say, sitting curled up on the couch with your sketchbook on your lap. Ren sits across from you, very careful not to move. You had already scolded him a few times for fidgeting too much, and he doesn’t want to ruin your drawing.

“Um, a wedding?” Ren says. He wasn’t sure how to explain, had been putting it off for the last few days, but the longer he waited, the more impatient the general became.

“But why?” You laugh when you say it, and Ren adds your laugh to the mental list he’s compiling of his favorite things about you. “Aren’t weddings between soulmates kind of, I don’t know, silly?”

“Well, actually,” he clears his throat, and you go back to sketching, staring at him for a moment before adding another line on the flimsi and blending it out with your finger, “no one really knows-” he swallows before continuing, “that we’re soulmates.” You pause in your drawing. 

“Why not?” You look up, confused, and then disappointed, leaking sadness out of the corners of your mouth, and it reminds Ren why he didn’t want to have this conversation in the first place.

“The First Order frowns upon connections that could put the organization at risk. Soulmates are seen as a hazard.” You nod solemnly, dropping the sketchbook into your lap and looking pensive. “Some people know, obviously, but it was decided that it would be better if we kept the true nature of our relationship secret.” He watches closely, taking in your microexpressions with a careful eye. You hum through your lips, deep in thought, and Ren waits anxiously to know what you’ll say next.

“So what will everyone else be told?” 

“We’ll keep the details private. Our marriage will be seen as a political alliance … would that be alright with you?”

“Of course,” you say, after a short pause, “it doesn’t really matter to me, whether there’s a wedding or not.” Ren relaxes, and you start another sketch, slower this time, more detailed.

“You never wanted a wedding?” he asks, watching your hand glide across the flimsi; your hands go on the list as well.

“I don’t think there’s been a wedding in my village … ever.” You look up into the distance, trying to remember. “When you live somewhere as remote as I did, most people meet their soulmates at a very young age. By the time they’re old enough for something like a wedding, they’ve usually been bonded for years. The additional ceremony is pointless.”

“What about people without soulmates?” Ren wonders out loud. It’s pretty common for people in the Order to marry without finding a soulmate, for political alliances or companionship, but your life is so different from his. Despite the difference, it’s easy for him to talk to you. He never feels like you’re judging him. Being around you is like being someone else and himself wrapped up into a person who makes sense.

“They stay in the village, help raise the children and take care of the cattle and whatever else is needed. We support them when they become too old to work. In a way, we become their soulmates when we care for them.” You smile fondly at the memories, and he watches the faces of old friends flash by in your head.

“Seems sad.”

“Not forever,” you say, and then pause before adding, “I thought I was one of them. The sadness doesn’t last.” You set your drawings to the side and stand from the couch, stretching for a moment.

“Are you glad,” he asks, even though it scares him to hear your answer, “that you’re not … one of them?” You go to him, sitting at his side and curling yourself up next to him. The couch is already too small for him alone, but he can’t be uncomfortable when you show him affection like this.

“Yes,” you smile, and he places one hand in your hair, always trying to gauge the invisible boundary between not enough and too much. Will he ever be too much for you? The thought haunts him.

“What about after the wedding?” You ask quietly, your face buried in the fabric of his shirt.

“What do you mean?”

“Isn’t it traditional for the couple to … go somewhere? Like, a honeymoon?” _Oh._ Ren’s heart races, he’s suddenly highly aware that he can feel you _everywhere_ on him, the press of your body against his a little terrifying now. All your contact up until this point had been initiated by you, never more than an innocent resting of your head on his shoulder when you sleep or the brush of your fingers against his arm when you’re walking side by side down the corridor. He hadn’t wanted to pressure you, to make you uncomfortable, but it was difficult to maintain control, his eyes always managing to catch the gleam of a zipper at the back of your dress, or the shape of your hips underneath the fabric of your jumpsuit. And now you’re inviting more, and it frightens him how much he wants it.

“I- I don’t think I could leave,” he says with some difficulty, purposely avoiding the true nature of your question, “I need to stay on the ship.”

“That’s a shame,” you reply. You’re looking at him now, your chin resting on his sternum, and your eyes examine him mischievously; you recognize the effect that you’re having on him, and you like it. It calms him a little, recognizing how easily you accept him as he is. “I guess we’ll have to have a honeymoon here.” You roll off of the couch without warning, and run your fingers down the length of his arm. The gesture makes him shiver, and he can’t look at you when he feels this way.

“I’ll tell the general to schedule the wedding as soon as possible,” Ren says, focusing all his energy on keeping his voice steady. You bend down to eye level where he lies, and place a lingering kiss on his temple before whispering in his ear.

“I can’t wait.”


	5. Work Something Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could you write something where the reader and Kylo love each other but refuse to admit it because the first order would disapprove of high ranking members being together and then the reader gets hurt or something and Kylo basically says fuck it and admits that he loves her!!! That was a mouth full lmao
> 
> Pairing: Kylo Ren X Female Reader
> 
> Warnings: Language and a blaster wound, enjoy!

“Stay away from the commander today,” you hear one of the officers whisper quietly as you work on rewiring the control panel in front of you, “He’s in a bad mood.” The others chuckle, but you tense, listening more closely as you work.

“Isn’t he always?” One says, rolling his eyes, throwing an exasperated glance your way, and you try to look at ease, smiling back in a way you hope looks natural.

“It’s different today—worse,” the first officer whispers more urgently, “He took out a sentry droid and trashed an interrogation room on one of the upper floors. I was there when a Trooper reported the damage to the general; he was livid.” Shit. You focused on calming your breathing, trying to reason with yourself. There were lots of reasons why Ren would lash out, it didn’t have to be because of you.

“Speak of the devil,” the other officer mumbles, and a pair of shiny, black boots appears on the deck of the bridge in front of you. Shit, shit, shit, _fucking_ shit.

“A word, Lieutenant?” You look up, and see General Hux standing above you, and you can already tell that he’s more irritable than usual. Today is not your day.

“Of course, General.” You add a few finishing touches to the newly-repaired panel, and head to the upper deck of the bridge. As you walk, you try to soothe yourself. He doesn’t know anything, you repeat in your mind, how could he? He just wants you to fix the damage. You approach the general from behind; he’s all clean lines, not a crease or a hair out of place, and you feel a little self-conscious standing next to him, in your simple and not particularly nice maintenance jumpsuit. Since your promotion to the head of the maintenance team, you’ve had to deal with increasing amounts of impostor syndrome, even though your new ranking was more than deserved. You worked harder than practically anyone else on the ship, and your team had shown great improvements since you took control. Still, standing next to General Hux, it’s hard not to feel inadequate and unprepared, especially when you’re keeping a secret.

“You’re needed on a repair,” he says, walking down the bridge and you try to keep up with his brisk pace, “I’ve sent the location to your data pad.”

“Of course, sir,” you respond, checking the to make sure you received the message.

“You are still planning on participating in the mission tomorrow?” he asks, and you pause. Had he managed to figure out why Ren was so upset? You know the general is an intelligent man, it’s entirely possible that he had discerned the true reason. A flash of anger passes through you. The whole reason you and Ren had decided on the current situation was so that you could avoid these feelings of guilt, but here they are, and it annoys you immensely.

“Yes, sir,” you reply, aiming for nonchalance, “I am.” You wait for his response, wondering if he’ll reveal how much he truly knows.

“Make sure the repairs are done before then,” he says, turning back to the bridge and leaving you alone in the hallway.

Upon finding the correct interrogation room, you realize that the other officer had not been exaggerating Ren’s bad mood. At this point, you were used to seeing lightsaber damage, but this was next level, and your mood doesn’t improve as you begin cataloguing the materials you’ll need for the repairs.

Ren’s presence enters the room; you can feel him behind you but you don’t turn around. His hand finds your shoulder, and he runs a finger down your bicep. When did you become so accustomed to his touch? You’re spiraling into your frustration, and you don’t want to be angry with him, but he can be _so_ difficult.

“What do you want, Ren?” you ask, shrugging away from his hand.

“You are a difficult person to get alone,” he says through his helmet.

“Wasn’t that the point?” You’re lashing out at him; you’re not in the right state of mind to have this conversation, and he knows it.

“Tell the general that you will not be participating in the mission tomorrow.” He delivers it like an order, but you can hear the emotion behind it, even through the mask, and it takes the edge off your anger.

“What would say, Ren? That I’m not going because you don’t want me to? He’d find out the truth, and then where would we be?” Ren doesn’t respond, just stares you down, and you’re both trapped in this misery together. It’s not a consolation.

“I know you’re worried about me, but I have to do this. If this mission goes well, it could make a huge difference for me. I could be noticed, promoted again,” you know you’re in private, but you check for watchful eyes out of habit, and then rest your hand on his arm, trying to offer him some comfort.

“I didn’t join the First Order so I could sit back safely and watch everyone else fight. I need you to trust me when I say that I can do this.”

“What if something goes wrong? What if-” he hesitates; even with the mask on, you can read him, know what he’s feeling as intimately as you know your own thoughts, “what if you get hurt?”

“I can’t promise anything. I will do my best to make it back, and when- if I do, we can work something out. I want to be with you. We’ll work something out.” He can’t respond, the raw distress of the moment is too much for him to process, but he brushes one hand into your hair and pulls you close, your forehead meeting with the cool metal of his helmet, and then he’s gone, down the hallway and out of view. You hope you made the right choice.

When the transport lands, you don’t have time to think before the door is opened to the blinding light of the sun outside the headquarters, and you run out into the middle of the action. There’s blasters being fired from both sides, and you try your best to dodge out of the way, hoping that the Trooper assigned to protect you is doing their job.

There’s an entrance twenty yards ahead, and you run for it, your chest pounding from the adrenaline as you race towards your goal. You don’t take your eyes off of it, knowing that if you do, you’ll try to find Ren in the chaos, and that’s a distraction you can’t afford right now. He’s out there, there’s no question of that, and you won’t worry about it. You know he’ll make it.

“Cover me!” You call to the Trooper behind you, careening in through the entrance and taking in your surroundings. It’s dark in the base, and for the moment before your eyes adjust, everything is pitch black. You feel your way through the curved corridor and activate your portable holo-map with the layouts, discerning the correct direction for your destination. The base is quiet, all of the guild members are outside fighting off the First Order, and you walk through the hallways on high-alert.

“Let’s get in and get out as fast as we can,” says ZT-1481, his blaster at the ready. He’s jumpy, pausing at the slightest of sounds, and you ignore him, fully focused on taking the right path. You find the control room unguarded, and get ready to go to work.

Despite his worry, Ren is in his element, so immersed in the fight that for a moment he stops thinking about your safety and concentrates on the task at hand. The bounty hunters guild is woefully unprepared for the attack, and for a moment, Ren believes that both you and he will make it out alive. That’s when he feels it.

It’s like a shockwave when it hits him, pulsing through his entire body and stopping him in place. Something has gone wrong. There’s a crackle of static, and his worst fears are confirmed.

“ZT-1481 in the base, we need backup. Doors are barred but they won’t hold long, the maintenance officer has been shot.” Ren is running before the message has even finished, unable and unwilling to think how this would look from the outside, the questions that will inevitably be asked when he returns to the Finalizer later. He’s crashing through the conflict, indiscriminate in the damage he causes. No one will get in his way.

He reaches the base and races through the hallways. Your presence is near and he doesn’t have to think about where he’s going; he could find you blind. You’re last words to him are playing on repeat in his mind, and he holds on to them desperately, he wants to work something out. He needs you alive to work something out.

The door to the control room has been busted open, but there’s no sign of life, and he walks in, looking for someone he can kill. He sees the bodies first, a few bounty hunters and the Trooper you were with, and then his eyes find you. Your face is twisted in pain, and he stops when he sees the vibroblade blade at your neck, and the blaster wound on your leg. There’s a man holding you to him, gripping at your waist in a way Ren had done so many times before.

“Don’t come any closer-” the man says but Ren doesn’t wait to let him finish, throwing him across the room with the force so powerfully that he can hear the man’s bones break when he hits the wall. You drop to the floor, unable to stand on your own and Ren runs to you.

“Ren!” your voice is tight when you speak, and you’re crying, thin trails of tears running down your cheeks as you grip at your thigh. The wound is bad, and he can feel your pain through the force.

“We need to get you back to the ship,” he says, lifting you gingerly into his arms and you gasp when he moves you.

“No, don’t,” you whisper, but your heart’s not in it, and wrap your arms around his neck. You’re still protesting as he carries you out into the daylight, shielding you from the blaster fire as he runs.

“People will talk,” you whisper, “this won’t end well.” You’re looking up at him with a terrible sadness, so convinced that everything is doomed before it’s even started, but there’s love there, and gratitude too, and he chooses to focus on that instead, allowing himself to feel hopeful only once he reaches the ship. A medic approaches nervously, and he sets you down so that they can work on your leg. He should probably go back, help finish the fight, but he stands over the medic instead. He wants to stay by your side.

“We’ll work something out,” he says to you as they bandage your leg, and you know what he means is _I love you_.


	6. A New Life Pt. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, surprise, everyone! Here is the third (and probably final) part of the Kylo Ren soulmate AU. Thank you to everyone who expressed your love for this little mini series 😊
> 
> Requests are open ✨
> 
> Kylo Ren X female reader soulmate! AU Pt. 3
> 
> AN: This one is on the verge of NSFW 😘

The party is over, the corridor is empty, and the only thing Ren can hear is the sound of your heels clicking softly against the floor mixed with his own heavy breathing. The ceremony was solemn, brief and relatively private: attended by the _Finalizer_ crew and a few other key members of the Order, the whole event felt more like a business meeting than a wedding. The formality didn’t make it any less of an ordeal, and Ren had felt an acute pain in his chest the entire time, waiting for this moment.

It had been hours since he’d last felt your touch. You had kept your distance during the event, as you had been instructed, to avoid any uncomfortable questions about the nature of your relationship with Ren, but he had missed the gentle affection you normally showed. He thinks about reaching out to you now, but his nerves are already at a fever pitch, and even something as simple as holding your hand could push him over the edge.

The two of you reach his quarters, and he enters first, his whole body on fire beneath the heavy layers of fabric he wears. He can hear the door close behind him, knows you’re standing there, waiting, but he can’t look at you. It’ll kill him. Sensing his inner turmoil, you reach out from behind, your hand brushing down between his shoulder blades and he shivers, arching into your touch involuntarily.

“Look at me,” you whisper and he turns. You’re backed up against the door, looking lovelier than he’s ever seen you, and you pull him closer to you by the hem of his sleeve, so gentle it’s almost like you’re not pulling at all, like you have a gravity that draws him closer and he’s just now feeling the effects of it. You reach up, and his breath hitches as your fingers find the latch on his mask, releasing it and pulling it over his head. Your hand finds his cheek and you trace with a feather-light touch over his jaw, stopping at the pulse point of his neck; he can feel how fast his heart is beating reflected in the pressure of your fingers. 

“Will you kiss me?” you ask him. It sounds like every other request you’ve made—incredibly polite—but this one makes him go red, “Please?”

“I don’t know how,” he’s too tense to be dishonest, but your hand moves into his hair, your fingers brushing up against his scalp and sending shockwaves through his entire body. His knees go weak, he never knew it was possible to want something so much and to be so afraid of it at the same time.

“I don’t either,” you reply. He’s moving into you, against his better judgement, despite his surety that he’s about to ruin everything, and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Your face is closer to his than it’s ever been, and he’s not breathing when he feels your nose brush against his. You run your tongue over your bottom lip, and the desperation is too much, he can’t stand it anymore. In a moment his mouth is on yours, clumsy and insistent, but gentle even in his ache.

The kiss is not perfect, but it’s so _good_ , and Ren stops thinking, the hesitation and self-doubt gone. The only thing he can focus on is a white-hot need in the pit of his stomach as he pushes you up against the door, his hand finding its way to your neck and holding you in place, his thumb stroking down the center of your throat. You moan at his touch, gripping his hair with more intensity, and he can taste you, your lips sweet as he slides his tongue between them. Your body meets his and he thrusts his hips against yours, in desperate need of more pressure. A soft whine leaves your parted lips, and Ren pulls back.

“Did I hurt you?” He asks, concerned, but you bring him closer again, insistent.

“Don’t stop,” you command, and he’s more than willing to oblige. He can’t get close enough, will never be close enough to you, but this is a good start. 

Your hands leave his hair as you reach back, attempting to unfasten your dress, but he grabs you by the wrist, stopping you.

“No, let me,” he says, and you do, moving your mouth to the tender skin of his neck while he slides the zipper down until it stops, just like he’d pictured it in his head so many times before. You’re flushed, propped up against the door and you’re shaking at the knees, but you pull the dress forward so that the black fabric pools at your feet. It looks like you’re glowing in the low light of his quarters, your skin soft and elegant and Ren wants to study every inch of you, but there’s a look in your eyes that stops him dead in his tracks; he’s lost at the sight of you wanting him.

“Are you sure about this?” he wants to hear you say that you want him, and you nod in confirmation. He still isn’t sure where to put his hands, but he reaches for somewhere safe, pulling you close to him again by the back of your neck. This kiss is slower, more intimate, and you go to work at the belt of his uniform, your attempts to undress him clumsy and urgent and _needy_. 

“I’m sure about this, Ren. Are you?” Your voice hitches as your hand trails down, and Ren doesn’t hesitate anymore.


	7. Under My Service

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Could you do one where the reader is like the secretary of Kylo or something? And he gets jealous/mad when he catches her almost kissing Hux because he’s secretly in love with her?”
> 
> Here’s a request from my AO3. I kind of went in a different direction than the prompt, I hope that’s okay! 
> 
> Requests are open ✨
> 
> Kylo Ren X Reader
> 
> AN: Attempted Sexual Assault

“Get away from her,” Ren growls through the mask, and his hand is on the hilt of his saber. The admiral pauses, backing away slightly, his body shielding you from Ren’s view, his gloved hand still at the base of your neck. He’s an older man, short and wiry, but he still manages to look down his nose at Ren. He rolls his eyes and slams a fist on the wall next to your head like a child throwing a tantrum, but when Ren moves closer, looming over the admiral, he flinches.

“This doesn’t concern you, Commander,” he says, his voice trembling and his hand falls away from your face. 

“Get out of here.” The admiral jumps away completely at the sound of Ren’s command, still sputtering incoherent arguments as he walks out. You suck in a deep breath, finally free of the other man’s presence, shuddering up against the wall, and now the two of you are alone in the conference room. This might be the first time Ren has been in private with you . . . ever. He’s not sure what to do next.

“Um, thank you, Commander,” you say, standing upright and straightening out your uniform. You’re embarrassed, desperate to get away as quickly as possible, “if you’ll excuse me.”

“Wait,” he says, and you do, turning back to him with a certain amount of reluctance. There’s shame written all over your face, and Ren can feel it as you stave off the tears threatening to spill from your eyes.

“Is there something that you need from me, Commander?” Your voice is shaking through your professional demeanor, and he’s not sure how to respond; he wants to make sure that alright. 

“It’s late, I’ll accompany you back to your quarters.” You’re surprised, momentarily forgetting your embarrassment, but you don’t object, walking with him out the door and into the empty corridor. There’s no one around at this time, no one else who could have interrupted your commanding officer’s late night _activities_ , and a stab of anger strikes Ren again. Once you're safe, maybe he’ll go pay a visit to the Admiral.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say quietly, interrupting Ren’s contemplations.

“Of course I did,” His voice is harsh, the anger bleeding in, and he attempts to soften his tone, “would you rather I hadn’t?” It comes out cold and callous, which is not ideal, but he hopes that it will cover up any weakness he might be showing. Had he been mistaken? You had been relieved, he thought, once he had interrupted you and the admiral, but maybe he had misinterpreted the interaction. Maybe you had wanted the man’s attention.

“I’m the admiral’s assistant,” you say with a practiced air, “it’s my responsibility to provide for his needs.” You’re resigned to it, this treatment, and Ren’s heart aches for you. Who else had taken advantage of you using their high status as coercion?

“Was this the first time?” He asks. Ren’s vision is filled with a red haze, and he sucks in a deep breath trying to clear it—trying to clear his mind of the sight of the admiral with his hands on you, repeated infinitely, over and over again, each time worse than the last.

“It was the first time,” you whisper, but there’s little relief for Ren in that.

“Do you want it to happen again?” He asks next, and you hesitate, unsure whether or not you can allow yourself to be honest with him, but he waits to hear you say it. 

“No.” Your response is quiet, shameful, but it gives Ren something to grasp onto, a slim sliver of hope that all of this hasn’t been in vain.

“Then I’ll make sure that it doesn’t.” Silence falls over the two of you again, the endless halls of the _Finalizer_ filled only with the echoing sounds of your footsteps. 

“Why are you doing this?” There’s a broken quality to your voice, a shattering that he feels deep in his chest, “why do you _care_ what happens to me?”

What could Ren say in response? Could he tell you about the draw you had, the pull he felt whenever you were in a room? How his eyes wandered towards you as you stood behind the admiral in every meeting, diligently recording notes, or the way he searched for you every time he turned a corner? The thin slippery thrill he still felt when he caught you thinking about him; these were things that he couldn’t share.

“I’ll have you transferred from the admiral’s service. Do you have a preference?” he says instead, and you scoff, incredulous.

“So someone else can treat me the same?” There’s mirth now in your tone; you’re no longer resigned, you’re angry, “I’d rather stay with the admiral. At least I know what to expect.”

“I’ll put you under my service,” he says, and you stop walking.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Commander, what would you need an assistant for?” There’s a separate layer to the question, a deep current of understanding that runs beneath your words, and he knows that you know. About him. About him wanting you.

“I’m sure I could find something,” he says, filling the silence of the hallway with just a whisper. You’re standing apart from him but there’s a look in your eyes that suggests that you want to be closer.

“Alright then. I look forward to working with you, Commander.” There’s tension, potent, delicious. Ren looks forward to working with you too.


	8. A New Life Pt. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, I said that there would be no more of the Kylo Ren soulmate AU but apparently I lied! This came to me earlier today and I had to write it. Hope you like it! 
> 
> Requests are closed for now ✨
> 
> Kylo Ren X female reader soulmate! AU Pt. 4
> 
> AN: Some language, and it’s vaguely NSFW towards the end!

Ren never touched you first. Not in private, and certainly not in public. It was a compromise of some kind, you assumed, that he had made with himself. You knew he worried about it, even now—the ridiculous notion that he would somehow scare you off, that he would hurt you. So you initiated all contact, and you were gentle, and you let him be gentle. You weren’t too bothered by it. After all, there were exceptions to every rule.

When the general was around, Ren was _always_ touching you. Holding you by the waist, resting a hand on your shoulder, at the back of your neck: if General Hux was in the room, you were never out of Ren’s reach. This was true now, too, his hand solidly on your back at your waist as you board the transport, headed to Ryyn with Phasma and the general.

It’s exciting, to finally go somewhere, to have the opportunity to _be_ somewhere besides the _Finalizer_. Ren left the ship fairly often and the time you spent by yourself—sometimes for weeks on end—was … boring. Lonely. When he had mentioned that he would be going off base again after only returning a few days ago, you had been crushed, a feeling that had been immediately replaced with joy when he had asked if you would like to join him.

The general had grumbled, of course, when he saw that you would also be coming but you paid him no mind. He was always complaining about something, making snide remarks when you were there, and even though it drove Ren crazy, you could see through the act; the man was very obviously lonely. He tried to hide it, and did hide it successfully, from Ren and the captain. But not from you.

Against your better judgement, you liked the general, or at least, you found him interesting. He may have been rude and judgemental, but it was hard for you to take him seriously. He reminded you sometimes of the zeefas your family had kept for milk and meat back home—grumpy old animals, but harmless enough. You had a knack for working with livestock like that; it never took long before even the most stubborn of them were eating out of the palm of your hand. Apparently your charms were limited to farm life; despite the concerted effort you had put into being as inoffensive as possible, the general showed no signs of warming up to you in the slightest. Which was too bad, because part of you believed that—if he gave you a chance—you might be friends. And you’d _really_ like to have a friend.

You take your seat on the transport, strapping in, and Ren sits beside you, only letting go of you for a moment to secure his own restraints before replacing his hand on your knee. Hux rolls his eyes, finding a seat on the other side and Phasma joins him. The anticipation in your chest only grows more potent as the pilot prepares for launch, and you can hardly wait for what was in store. You were going to _Ryyn_ —a place you had only heard about in wild stories—to the capital city Cearrau; you would be staying in the palace there. You would meet the queen and attend the ball she would hold in honor of the First Order guests. You would wear the dress you had picked out especially for the event, blood-red and beautiful, and you would be on Ren’s arm the entire night. It was sure to be incredible.

“I still don’t see why _you’re_ coming,” Hux says, leveling a glare in your direction, and Ren’s grip tightens on your knee. He’s ready to spit out some retort, you can tell, but you stop him with a hand gently rested on his arm.

“It’s fine,” you say quietly, and he relaxes minutely before you address the general, “I’m actually very excited for the trip, General. I think it will be interesting.” Hux scoffs in response and opens up his data pad, choosing to ignore you.

Everyone settles into their seats as the ship launches and you decide to distract yourself, pulling out your sketchpad and a stylus, tapping the end of it against your mouth, deep in thought. You could draw Ren, of course, but you had plenty of drawings of him, stacks and stacks of them—enough to cover the walls of your quarters if you wanted. You didn’t even need a reference anymore, the exact shape of his nose and the planes of his cheeks appearing easily to you from memory. You need something new, some kind of a challenge.

The general was obviously out of the question, for a number of reasons. For one, he isn’t sitting still enough for you to complete a proper sketch, shifting from one position to the next every few minutes, engrossed in something on his data pad. Plus, you’re afraid of what would happen if he caught you, what insult he would come up with that would send Ren into a rage. Not worth the risk. The captain, on the other hand, might work. 

She is lounging, her helmet resting on the wall behind her, maybe sleeping—it’s difficult to tell with the mask on, but her pose is dynamic and the reflection of the lights in her chromium armor adds depth and shadows where there are none. Your hand begins to move across the flimsi without your direction, working to capture the cool authority she always seems to emanate.

Ren dozes next to you, occasionally rolling his head to the side to check your progress, drumming his fingers lightly against your thigh in approval. The likeness is pretty good, although it’s lacking something in your opinion. You wish that you had brought your paints with you; maybe you’d have better luck communicating the shine of her armor in a different medium.

“What are you doing?” General Hux says, and you can feel the pressure of his gaze on you, although you don’t return it, still focused on the captain.

“Sketching,” you respond, adding a little depth in the background, “but I can stop if it’s bothering you.” 

“Sketching?” he asks, and for the first time since you’d met him, there is no trace of disdain in his voice. In fact, he sounds intrigued. You place the stylus behind your ear, passing him the sketchbook, and he reaches for it skeptically. You watch him closely as he studies the drawing, waiting anxiously to see how he’d react. 

“Hmm,” Hux says after a long moment, returning the book to you and studying you with his eyes narrowed, like he’s trying to read something from a distance, “Where did you learn to do that?”

“Home,” you say, trying your hardest not to seem too eager now that he had initiated a conversation, “my father was an artist.”

“I thought both of your parents were farmers,” the disdain is back, but cracking a little, a glimmer of genuine interest showing through, and you laugh gently to show that you’re not offended.

“We’re all farmers where I’m from, but he spends his free time drawing. Painting, too. I usually prefer paints, but they’re difficult to transport.” You stop yourself, looking at your drawing again, afraid that you’re rambling, and the general sits in silence for a moment, his eyes still on your sketchbook.

“I could paint you,” you venture, not wanting to lose the tenuous connection you had created,” if you want, when we get back to the _Finalizer_? You have such striking features; I think they’d translate well to the page.” You’re laying on the praise very thick, you know, and you’re worried it will come off as too much, but the general flushes pink, and you smile, the thrill of victory sharp in your veins. Was this all it would take to endear the general to you? To make him stop hating you? You wish you had known _that_ weeks ago.

“That would be fine,” Hux responds, with a small cough, guarding his expression against your obvious cheer, but your spirits cannot be dampened by his apparent indifference. Pleased, you go back to sketching, another one of Ren this time, happy with the progress you’ve made with Hux. Happy, that is, until you notice that Ren had pulled away from you, releasing his grip on your leg.

The ship drops out of light speed and begins to make its approach, but you take no notice, a coldness settling beneath your skin. You nudge him gently with your knee, but there’s no response. He’s motionless, quiet, staring forward with an obstinate amount of determination, and he stays this way, avoiding you as the four of you make your way out of the transport. You can’t help but notice that Ryyn is beautiful, the warmth and the wind greeting you as you step out onto the palace grounds, but the heat the sun offers refuses to clear away any the chill you feel.

After parting with Hux and Phasma, you and Ren are led by a servant to your guest quarters, and you prattle nonsensically as you walk hoping to put the man at ease—and hoping to release some of your own nerves as well. Ren says nothing, silent as a shadow, and you watch as the palace’s other inhabitants steal glances from around corners as you pass, eager to get a glimpse of the infamous Jedi Killer.

The room is lovely—and enormous—with large, open windows and an even larger balcony, overlooking the valley below. You move tentatively towards the view, but Ren doesn’t join you, choosing instead to stand ominously in the center of the room.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, sitting on the bed and running your hand over the covers. There’s distance between you, not only physical, and you want to address it now before it grows. Was he really so mad that you had spoken to Hux?

“It’s nothing,” he says, but he’s still wearing the mask, and you assume it’s to keep you out. This is the first time you’ve seen him like this, and it’s beginning to scare you. This was how he acted with _other_ people, not with you.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” you say, standing from the bed but moving no closer, “please? I know you’re angry with me. I want to make it right.” He faces away from you, his powerful shoulders rolling as he moves to lift the helmet from his head, discarding it on the floor with a thud. The sound makes you jump, and you watch him perceptively, hoping to read the answer to your question in his expression, but he still guards his face from you.  
“Why don’t you go find the general?” he says harshly, and you catch the barest glimpse of his profile as he looks over his shoulder, “since you find him so _interesting_.” Your jaw drops in shock.

“Are you jealous?” you ask, and he doesn’t respond, but you can tell that you’re right. Despite the tension, a smile threatens its way onto your face and you smother it with your hand.

“It’s not funny,” he says, picking up thoughts but still avoiding your eyes.

“I know it’s not,” you respond, back in control of your mind and your expression, “I’m just surprised.” He laughs, but there’s no joy in it, a short, angry sound that bounces back at you off of the polished walls. 

“I just don’t want him to hate me, that’s all,” you say, quietly. You’ve seen Ren angry before, but never like this. Never at you. But there’s something else besides anger, and that’s what scares you more. You can feel it roll off of him, see it clearly in his posture; he’s doubting your love for him.

“You know you have nothing to worry about, right? I could never want someone else the way I want you.” His shoulders relax slightly, and you’re able to breathe again, now that he’s listening to you. It’s difficult to see him this way, catching brief glimpses of his fears. He thinks you’ll leave him, but that would never happen. You repeat yourself once again, hoping that this time he’ll finally believe what you’re saying. “I only want _you_.”

Those words work like magic, or maybe it’s the feeling behind them, but either way the doubt is gone, and he’s facing you with a look in his eyes like pure sin, his anger transformed into _something else_. You hold his gaze and the intensity of it goes straight to the space between your legs, weakening you at the knees.

“How?” he asks, stalking towards you, impossibly large and your heart beats loudly in your chest. You feel for a moment in some wild part of you that you should run, but you’re frozen in place, and you like it. A lot. Now _this_ is a side of him you’ve never seen before.

“How what?” you ask; your voice shakes when you speak. He laughs, low and deep and through his teeth as he bites one glove off and then the other, a warm hand finding its way to your waist and gripping the fabric of your dress tightly, pulling you closer. The first point of contact.

“Tell me how you want me,” he whispers, staring you down with his unfathomable eyes, his tongue darting out over full, pink lips. There are no thoughts in your head now, your mind is completely empty and for a moment you try to remember how you landed yourself in this particular situation. Maybe, if you remember, you’ll be able to work him up like this again.

He steps closer, his body like a brick wall against yours and you stumble backwards, falling onto the bed with a light bounce, propped up on your elbows, still in shock that he’s acting this way, and that you don’t want him to stop. He smirks, gripping both of your knees with burning fingers, sliding his hands under the hem of your dress and climbing up your thighs, leaning in close over you to whisper in your ear.

“Tell me what you want,” he says again, and the feeling of his mouth on your ear sends vibrations through your whole body; your eyes roll back with anticipation.

“Fuck,” it’s the only word that you can think of right now, your mind wholy preoccupied by the feeling of his thumb as it traces small circles over the skin your inner thigh, inching ever higher.

“That’s what I thought,” he kisses you hard, hard enough to bruise and you moan, open-mouthed, a deep, desperate sound you had _never_ made before.

“Shit,” you mumble, and he doesn’t give you a chance to catch your breath before he’s moving, his mouth working down your jaw and to your chest with hot, harsh kisses. You try to relax into it, into the work of his hands, still below your skirt, but he draws a yelp from you when you least expect it, biting at the skin just above your breast. He looks up at you, anger from before gone and replaced with a strident need, daring you to beg for more.

“Someone might hear,” you say quietly, your voice hitching slightly with the movement of his fingers. The windows are open after all, and with the way he’s acting, you know you won’t be able to stay quiet.

“I hope they do,” he says, nudging a space between your knees with his shoulders, finding a place between your legs. “I hope they all hear you begging for me, and I hope that by the end of it everyone on this damn planet knows that you’re _mine_.”


	9. Under My Service Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> could you write a second part to the secretary story, please?:) thank you xx
> 
> Of course! (The first part is Chapter 7 if you missed it!)
> 
> Requests are closed ✨
> 
> Kylo Ren X Secretary! Reader
> 
> AN: Mild language and some medical drama!

It’s the middle of the night when you hear knocking at your door, and you know it’s him. Waiting for this has been torture. After weeks of scribing notes that you knew he’d never look at, following him around the ship as he went about his business, running petty errands, he still hadn’t laid a hand on you. At first it was fine, but then it became frustrating. After all, the admiral hadn’t been able to keep _his_ hands off you, and now that you were with Ren, and you wanted it … nothing. When he had first transferred you to his service, you thought it was obvious that he felt the same. Now you weren’t quite so sure. You don’t have to doubt any longer though. He’s here. _Finally_. 

“Can I help you, Commander?” you ask as soon as the door opens, leaning against the frame in your best attempt to appear alluring. He stands there, imobile, and you clench your fists, feeling awkward. Maybe you really _had_ misread his intentions, and you stand away from the door, embarrassed. That’s when he collapses. He falls into you like a battering ram, and you’re knocked to the ground, the weight of him crushing you. He’s trembling.

“What happened to you?” you ask, more to yourself than to him. There’s a warmth soaking into the material of your pajamas; he’s bleeding, badly, from somewhere on his abdomen, and from the amount of blood covering you, it’s amazing that he’s not already dead. The feeling makes your stomach tighten and you wiggle out from under him, careful to make sure you don’t jostle him too much. It takes all of your strength, but you manage to roll him onto his back, laying him down flat on the floor. He’s still breathing, his chest rising and falling, but barely, and for a moment you’re at a loss. What are you supposed to do now?

“Help me,” he tries reaching for his helmet, but he flinches, pulling his arm back into his chest. His body is rigid with pain, so stiff it hurts just to look at him. You scramble for the release on his helmet, pushing it off roughly and unveiling his face. It’s not the first time you’ve seen him without it, but right now you hardly recognize him. His skin is pale, bloodless, the stark freckles dotting his skin and he’s covered in a sheen of sweat. You brush the tendrils of his hair out of his eyes, and he closes them for a moment, his breathing turning shallow. Panic grips your heart. He’s going to die.

“You need a doctor.” You’re not sure when you started crying, or why, but your words come out as a sob. This is no time to by hysterical, but apparently that’s not going to stop you. 

“No,” he gasps, gripping your hand in his, “it’s … it’s not as bad as it looks,” he squeezes his eyes tightly to ward off the pain. It might actually be _worse_ than it looks. You scramble to your feet and find an old shirt before returning, pressing it into his uniform where you think the blood might be coming from.

“We need to get you to the medbay. I’ll call for someone,” you search for your data pad with your eyes, but he holds you in place with a grip much stronger than you would assume he was capable of in his current state. It gives you a little hope, and you pause. He could have gone the medbay, and he didn’t. He must have a reason.

“What do you want me to do?” you ask; there’s adrenaline pulsing through your veins now, and you’re prepared to fix this as best you can.

“I need to see the cut.” You start removing the layers he wears, but it requires a lot of effort, both on your part and on his as he shifts to allow you access to the different fasteners and to pull the material over his head. Your fingers finally brush against bare skin, and you’re grateful, until you see the wound. Then you think you might be sick. 

It’s a thick gash, low and center on his abdomen, pooled with blood so dark that it’s almost black. You cover it immediately, pressing the shirt back over his stomach and he groans.

“You _really_ need a doctor, sir,” you say again, and he shakes his head. Damn, he’s stubborn. You try to be more persuasive. “I don’t have a medkit. I don’t have supplies.” 

“Can you go get them?” You want to tell him no, but he’s looking so frail the idea of moving him frightens you. And another fear, a more selfish one. You don’t want him to leave.

“Fine,” you give in, moving his hand over the shirt so he can staunch the blood flow, and you wait to watch him press down. He seems stronger now, like maybe laying down has given him some of his strength back. His eyes are clear and focused, as well, even if they are a little wild with pain. He probably won’t pass out, but you grab your data pad from the place by your bed, and leave it next to him within reach, just in case.

“If you think you’re going to faint, call somebody,” he nods in agreement, and you roll your eyes, sighing. This was _not_ how you thought tonight was going to go.

“You better not die before I get back,” you mumble on your way out the door, and break into a run. The medbay isn’t terribly far from your quarters, but that doesn’t mean much on the _Finalizer_. You have to move fast.

There’s only one attendant in the medbay, sitting at the desk and watching some holoshow with the volume turned off. You run at the desk, hitting it with some force and she jumps, glaring at you.

“The commander, he’s hurt,” you say before she can scold you, “I need some supplies so that I can patch him up.”

“What do you mean- I mean, who are you? What’s going on?” she babbles incoherently, and you slam your hand down on the desk to quiet her.

“I’m the commander’s assistant. He’s injured, some kind of stab wound, and he’s currently bleeding out on the floor of my quarters. I need some supplies _now_.” The woman still hesitates, and you curse under your breath. Could she not see that this was an emergency? 

“If this is all true, then the commander needs medical attention from a _professional_ ,” she says, turning stern, “I can send a droid to your quarters to retrieve him.” She opens a command screen on her data pad and you grab her hand to stop her, and for a moment, you wish that Ren were with you. No one ever questioned you when he was around. It was a nice feeling, to be taken seriously. You need to channel some of that power right now.

“The commander specifically refused to come to the medbay. How do you think he’d feel knowing that you questioned his judgement? Do _you_ want to be the one to tell him that he’s wrong?” Her expression turns pained.

“I’ll go get you some supplies.”

Medpack in hand, you race through the halls once again, only stopping once you reach your quarters, out of breath and praying that Ren is still alive. The attendant gave you some basic instructions as she packed the kit, and you go over them again in your mind so that you don’t forget anything.

The door opens, and Ren looks up when he hears the sound, thank the Maker. He’s not dead yet, but it looks like he’s leaning that way. You drop the medpack and run to the sink, scrubbing your hands furiously so that you can get this over with as soon as possible.

“You know I don’t have any idea what I’m doing, right?” you ask when you get back to him, and Ren nods in confirmation. You get a better look at him now, and it scares you, the way his eyelids flutter and his jaw stays clenched. He lets his hand fall to his side, peeling the blood-soaked shirt away from his abdomen, and you swallow down the bile threatening to make its way up your throat. After this, you’d definitely deserve a raise. You open up the medback and search through the supplies, pulling out the medisensor first. “We could still go to the medbay?” you venture, one last time, but he reaches for your arm, his hand shaking, his grip weak.

“ _Please_ ,” he whispers, and he draws in a labored breath. There’s no time to argue anymore. 

Cleaning and dressing the wound is horrible. Your hands tremble the entire time, and it seems like every movement, no matter how gentle, sends him into spasms from the pain. Luckily, the cut isn’t deep—not that you could give him stitches anyway—and you grit your teeth, smearing bacta over the rippled break in his skin. That seems to soothe him a little, and you’re relieved when the color returns to his cheeks and he can sit up long enough for you to wind a clean, white bandage around his midsection.

Your hands are covered in his blood when you’re finished, and you force yourself to lie down on the ground next to him, waiting for the shaking to stop. The adrenaline has left your system, and a heavy exhaustion has taken its place, but your need to feel clean overpowers your need to rest.

You scrub your hands once again, but decide to leave the rest of the mess for morning, which isn’t too far off now. Ren dozes on the ground, breathing evenly. He looks young, lying there, half-asleep. Without warning, fierce need to protect him wells up in your chest.

“Hey,” you nudge him in the shoulder with your foot and he stirs, looking up at you with sleepy eyes, “let’s get you to bed.” You help him up, lifting him with great care, and he leans on you steadily as you make your way to the bed. He doesn’t stumble, but his skin is searing against yours as he moves, the soft material of the bandage shuffling against your dirty pajamas.

He flops onto the bed over the covers, leaning back against one of your pillows, his eyes falling closed before he’s fully reclined. You’re about to go change into something else when he grabs you around the waist, pulling you back towards the bed.

“Stay here.” Even though his voice is weak, he’s no less commanding than normal, and certainly no less enticing, the corded muscles of his arms and chest on full display. You climb over him, careful not to disturb his injury, and his hand follows until you’re out of reach, planted on the small of your back. He looks very peaceful, despite everything, but there’s a nagging at the back of your mind that won’t go away. 

“Why didn’t you want to go to the medbay, Ren?” you ask, and he shifts again, pulling you closer and resting his head in your lap. His hand finds yours and he places it in his hair. You were wrong before, apparently; he’s not just stubborn. He’s stubborn and bossy and surprisingly _needy._ You love it.

“They wouldn’t have let me leave,” he says quietly, the words brushing against the skin of your thigh, “they would have made me stay overnight.”

“I’m making you stay, too, though,” you said, wiggling your fingers deep in his hair so that you could scratch at his scalp. He sighs in appreciation. You’re surprised to find that you’re angry. At Ren, at yourself. What did all of this mean anyway? What were you searching for? Hot tears sting in your eyes and you throw your fists to the mattress, frustrated. He looks up at you, probably wondering why you pulled your hand away, and he blinks for a moment when he sees the sadness in your expression.

“I want to stay with you,” he says again. He sits up with a little effort, and for the first time, you really get to look at him. A bit more color has returned to his cheeks, and to his lips, and his eyes are warm and brown and entirely closed off to you. He’s so pretty it hurts to look, so you turn away. His hand is firm on your shoulder as he turns you back to face him.

“I want to stay with you,” he keeps repeating the same words, but all your foolish heart can hear is _I love you_ , even though you’re sure it’s not true. He leans in closer, experimenting with the feeling of it, and you bring one hand up to stop him, covering his beautiful mouth with your fingers.

“You’ve gone giddy from the blood loss,” you say, pushing him away, “you’ll regret this in the morning.” But he only pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around your waist in a hungry grip, until you’re so close that your nose brushes his.

“I know,” he says, and you don’t think he’s talking about your medical diagnosis, “we want the same things.” There’s no air in your lungs when you try to speak, and you pull in a broken gasp, unable to form the words.

“Then what took you so long?” you ask with what little breath you can muster. He smiles, pulling your head to his chest and laying back down on the mattress, and you fit against him perfectly.

He falls asleep almost immediately, but you can’t fault him for that after everything he had been through. You feel yourself drifting away as well, wrapped comfortably in his arms, your fingers dancing lightly over the smooth planes of his chest. A smile breaks on your face, and you let your eyes drift closed. You don’t have all the answers you want, but there would be time for that later. For now, this is enough.


	10. Take Me Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m desperate for a story about a story between Kylo n Femreader, where the two were dating, everyone knows, but one night they have a huge nasty fight, end the relationship, Hux wanted to make a move with femreader, like a feral one, Kylo knows and try to take back Femreader. U know, something jealousy, smut, fluffy “Take me back, please”
> 
> Requests are open ✨
> 
> Kylo Ren X Fem! Reader “Take me back, please”
> 
> Warnings: Language

Your eyes burn as you stare into the projection—too dry for tears anymore. You blink away the sting and adjust the view, spinning the image so that you can focus on the back half.

“It’s very late,” the general comments, and you look up from your workstation for the first time all day, surprised to see that everyone else had already left—probably hours ago, given what time it is. You hadn’t even noticed, swallowed up in your work. Distracting yourself.

“Why are you still here, General?” you ask, saving the modifications you made to the TIE fighter design you were working on, and then shut down the panel. Despite all the work you had done, you didn’t feel tired in the slightest, which might have been caused by all the caff you had been drinking pretty much non-stop since you had woken up that morning. It makes you jittery—nervous—and the general’s presence is aggravating the feeling, like you’re holding on tight to a livewire.

“I was just finishing up some work of my own, and saw that one of the design bays was still active,” he replies, walking around your station, running a finger lightly over the edge, like he’s searching for dust, before meeting your gaze, “I thought it would be you.” His eyes are sharp and focused —a predator’s stare —and you stiffen, turning to face him. It’s not rational to be afraid, but you still don’t want to know what might happen if you let your guard down.

“Why is that, sir?” Your heart beats erratically in your chest as he moves closer, but you know already why he would think that, and why he’s here. You can see it in his eyes.

“I wanted to know if you were alright.” He maintains the same distant tone, speaking casually, but now he’s close enough for you to see the sharp contours of his jaw, smell the cigarettes on his breath. Your back is to the control panel, and he rests his hand by your hip, closing the gap between you, holding you in place. 

“We all know what happened, after all.” He studies you, waiting for a reaction, some kind of confirmation that his suspicions are correct. You sigh in frustration; _of course_ he knew. Everyone on the ship knew, Ren had made sure of that. The last time you saw him he was headed to his shuttle, ignoring you as you called after him, ignited saber dragging along the walls as he went. He left you behind with all the wreckage. That had been a few days ago, and he still hadn’t returned. You couldn’t stop seeing it over and over again, every time you closed your eyes. You had told him it was over. You still weren’t sure if you had meant it.

“I don’t see why that’s any of your business, General,” you finally say, once again conscious of his intentions. He’s radiating heat, radiating _power_ , as he leans over you—and while you’re not necessarily afraid—you’re also not sure if you like it.

“I’ve decided to make it my business,” he whispers, reaching up with his other hand, gently brushing a loose piece of hair behind your ear, tracing a finger down your neck before stopping at your collar bone. He waits before continuing, and you suck in a breath through your teeth, forcing yourself to think. While the general had made his desires clear, you’re having trouble figuring out his true motives. Had he always wanted you like this? Or were you just another pawn in his and Ren’s petty squabble?

More importantly, is this what _you_ want? You’d never really thought of the general in that way; but you have to admit that it would be nice to give into him, just for one night. It might even grant you a little satisfaction, given the men’s rivalry, a sort of _fuck you_ to Ren for the hurt he had caused you. But you can’t, not just yet.

“It’s late,” you say, placing the palm of your hand against to the general’s chest and pressing him back, “I should be returning to my quarters.” He steps away immediately, smoothing one hand over his uniform.

“Very well,” he says, circling around to your other side, leaning in close to whisper one final enticement, “if you change your mind, you know where to find me.” And then he walks out.

Your head is pounding all of a sudden—an unhealthy combination of stress, lack of sleep, and a potentially lethal amount of caff raging in a focal point behind your eyes. Before you had been restless, unable to even consider the possibility of sleep, and now your mind is fogged with exhaustion.

You take a long, slow sip from your canteen—water, this time—and breathe deeply through your nose. After a few minutes, your headache diminishes, and you begin the long trek back to your quarters. At this point, you might as well stay where you are, given how soon your next shift starts, but the promise of a bed, even for a few hours, is too tempting.

Your thoughts are occupied as you walk back to your quarters, not with Ren as they had been almost constantly for the last few days, but with the general. He’s created a strange longing, and it sits heavily in your stomach. You’d give anything to stop feeling so abandoned—to get rid of the sadness that had been coloring your days since Ren had gone. It would almost be worth it to go back to the general, if it meant not being so lonely. Almost.

When you turn the corner, he’s the first thing you notice. Ren, outside your door, waiting for you. He looks about as rough as you feel: the helmet is gone, and his face is smudged with dirt and grime. There’s blood as well, trailing down from his nose. He’s scowling; he must have sensed you coming. He must know about the general.

“Ren I’m really-” what were you going to say? Tired? Sorry? It doesn’t matter because he’s on you, swallowing the words before you can speak them, his mouth angry and needy and insistent and you’ve forgotten everything but need as you reach into his hair, pulling him closer. He groans, and it’s a sound that you can feel move through your whole body. You’ve missed this. You _need_ this.

He lifts you in his arms and your feet leave the floor as he pulls you closer, his head buried into the crook of your neck. This is crazy. Someone could see you. Someone might catch you here with him, and you could imagine how quickly _that_ news would travel.

“Ren, wait,” you say, but he’s got you pinned against a wall now, and you’re distracted from your concerns for the time being.

“Take me back,” he says into your mouth, and you hold on to him more tightly. You have to think about this. There’s things you have to consider, like the argument, the one you had before he left. What had it been about again?

“Ren,” you say again, and he finally pulls back, giving you the space you need to think. You miss the contact immediately.

“Please,” he says, before he pulls off one of his gloves with his teeth, dropping it on the floor, “take me back.” And he brings his hand to your face, stroking his thumb over your cheek—so gentle—like he thinks you might break.

“Okay,” the word comes out as a puff of air; you don’t think before you say it. It doesn’t matter. You don’t need time to think about how you feel for him. He smiles, _stars_ , you live for his smile, and you raise your fingers to his lips so that you can feel his happiness come alive on his face.

He presses a kiss to the pads of your fingers. “You look tired, you should get some rest.”

“Come with me,” you say, taking him by the hand and leading him towards your room.

“You should sleep.” He’s reluctant, but follows you anyways, and you flash him a sly smile.

“How could I sleep without you here?” You pull him through the door and kiss him again and again and again. Sleep can wait. He’s finally back where he belongs.


	11. In Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!! May I please request a Kylo x reader piece in which Kylo admits that he loves her? Just something super sweet and fluffy! Thank you for taking this request!
> 
> Kylo x reader, two can't stand each other (or at least think they can't) then maybe a heated argument between the two sparks an intimate moment and makes them realize how they really feel? Soft or spicy up to you! I just love the pairing and your content
> 
> Thank you to both of you for these wonderful requests! I have this for you, I hope you like it! 
> 
> Requests are closed ✨
> 
> Kylo Ren X Force Sensitive! Reader
> 
> AN: So this was kind of inspired by those “ways to say I love you” prompt lists, but I couldn’t find one that I really liked to link here, so I just included a few that I could think of on my own. I hope that comes across in a way that makes sense 😬 Warnings for language, and some angst at the beginning, fluff at the end 😙

The impact knocks you senseless, and you almost lose consciousness, struggling to breathe as the cockpit fills with smoke. It’s too dark to see, but you can feel him, one strong arm wrapping around your torso and dragging you to the exit. Your legs are unresponsive for the moment, and so you decide to let him handle it. He stumbles out of the ship, crashing through dense foliage in complete darkness before he drops you, falling to his knees somewhere nearby.

There’s a low retching sound and you turn the other way, more for your sake than for his. Not that it matters anyways, you can’t see worth shit and your eyes aren’t adjusting to the dark at all. For a moment you think you might have gone blind, until Ren lights his saber, casting your surroundings in a faint red glow. You don’t need to look at him to know what he’s thinking; it’s rolling off of him in waves. You brace yourself, ready for the storm.

“What. The. _Fuck_. Were you thinking?” You finally turn to look at him, the light casting angular shadows over his face. He’s breathing in deep, heavy gasps, his chest heaving with the effort, and his face is grimy, maybe bleeding—you can’t be sure. His face is twisted in anger, an expression that is all too familiar. You’d like to pretend that this is the first time you’ve seen him like this, but that would be a lie. You tend to bring out the worst in him.

“I saved our lives. What were you thinking?” Despite the difficulties you always faced whenever you worked with Ren, this mission had _almost_ been going well; it had been successful, actually, until you left Qora. Then things had taken a turn for the worse.

“I told you I would take care of it,” he says, lowering the point of his saber in accusation, but you don’t flinch, even with the blade barely inches from your face. 

“There were seven of them and they had us surrounded. How were we going to fight our way out of that?” He always did this; took stupid risks, put himself in danger. It’s a miracle he had stayed alive this long without you there to get him out of trouble. Then again, it’s kind of amazing that _you_ had survived this long, considering the effect you had on him. The night air is warm and sticky on your skin, in your lungs; it takes work to breathe, and you shouldn’t be wasting precious energy on this argument, but he can be so _difficult_.

“You should have listened to me.” He ignores your statement because he knows you’re right, and it only makes you angrier. You move closer, brushing his saber out of the way with the force so you can get in his face, so he can see how you feel.

“You didn’t listen to me! I told you we were being followed.“ He drops the saber to the ground to escape the pressure you’re exerting, the blade slicing through the vegetation coating the floor, and the scent of burning things reaches your nose. 

"And it’s your fault that we’re stranded here with a crashed ship and no way to contact the Order.” He’s got an accusatory finger in your face, now, and you push it away with your hand. You could go on like this for hours, normally, both of you. Most of your arguments only end when interrupted by more pressing matters, but you’re all alone out here. No one to interrupt you now.

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” The words surprise him, clearly, but not as much as they surprise you, and you’re both left dumbstruck, staring at each other in the low light until he deactivates his saber, leaving you in darkness. The heavy night air isn’t the only thing that’s making it hard to breathe anymore, and your skin feels too tight, restrictive, your body too real. You sit in silence and darkness, neither of you willing to break it.

“Are you hurt?” he asks quietly, and you run your hands over your torso and legs to check for any injuries you might have missed. You feel alright, for the most part, but your head is aching, and you’re a little dizzy. After a landing like that, though, things could be much worse.

“I don’t think so,” you say, testing your joints next to make sure that they all function as they should, and though you’re a little stiff, you’re alright. “Are you?”

“No.” You hear him stand and you follow, igniting your own saber and taking in your surroundings. You’re in some kind of forest—or maybe it’s more of a jungle—the sky blacked out by a dense canopy of thick, intertwined tree branches. The ground is spongy beneath your feet, and large patches of it are covered by leafy plants that sway in the still air. You can’t see the ship in the pool of red light that you’ve created, but you can see the path that Ren created when he dragged you from the wreckage.

“They’ll still be looking for us, and they’ll search near the site of the crash first. We need to get as far away as possible,” he speaks without looking at you, igniting his own saber to amplify the light you’re providing. You follow his lead as he moves away from the direction you came, reaching out through the force, searching for signs of danger. You find nothing, but it does little to calm your nerves. Your skin is crawling with the feeling of being watched.

“Watch your step,” Ren says, and you hardly hear him, words of concern rushed and foreign when they’re coming from mouth. The ground slopes downward, the terrain rough and uneven, and you stumble forward, reaching for something to stop your fall. The muscles of Ren’s back tense under your hand, and you over-correct, leaning so far back that you begin to topple the other way.

“I said watch your step,"Ren growls, his hand on your wrist stopping you from falling on your ass. You right yourself, tugging your arm from his grasp. "Do you need me to fucking carry you?”

“I can walk without your help, Ren.” You always keep your thoughts and feelings closed off to each other as best you can—as a courtesy—but there are other reactions that are harder to hide, like the heat rising in your cheeks, or the staccato nature of your breathing. He stares at you for longer than you would like, his brow furrowed as his eyes flit over your face, like he’s dissecting you, peeling back the layers of your skin and finding the weakest parts beneath. You try not to flinch under his gaze, refusing to move until he turns away. 

He forges on, and you follow, placing your feet very carefully to avoid any more missteps. Gods, what was wrong with you? It’s not like you’ve never fucking touched him before; you’ve had your hands all over him, in training sessions. So why did this contact feel so much more potent? And why couldn’t you forget the brush of his fingers on your wrist, your skin still tingling through all the layers you wore, even now?

“Do you feel that?” Ren asks, and you panic for a moment, wondering if he’s peering into your thoughts, when you sense it: a rockface not to far from where you’re standing, and an opening in the side of it. No sign of life.

“Shelter,” you respond, and he nods, walking with more purpose now. You duck under the low hanging branches, watching your saber to make sure you’re not getting too close to Ren.

The rock face looms, blacker than the night around you, and the opening is somehow darker than that, like it swallows any light that threatens to penetrate it. But it feels empty, and it’s better than staying out in the open, where threats could come from any side.

Ren enters first, crouching, and you follow. There’s only enough room for one ignited saber, and you deactivate, letting him provide the light instead. He’s practically folded in half, sliding in the space. The cave is shorter than it is wide, and he sits, leaning back with one hand and keeping his saber aloft. You join him, sitting side by side, out of the way of his blade and once you’re there, he disengages it, letting the cave grow dark once again.

“We’ll leave as soon as light breaks, check for any watchers, and try to signal from the ship.” You don’t bother to indicate your assent, closing your eyes and leaning your head back against the smooth stone behind you. Adrenaline had helped you ignore it before, but now that you’re relatively safe, you keenly feel the ache in your muscles and you want to drift off, let your pain be numbed by sleep.

He nudges you with his foot, apparently sensing your drifting and you open your eyes again, forcing yourself to stay awake. “If they find us here, I want you to run."That wakes you right up, and you lurch forward, turning to face him despite the lack of light. 

"Don’t be stupid, Ren. I’m not leaving without you.” Why would he even suggest something like that? Why would he insist on fighting on his own when you were here, with just as much training, with just as much drive.

“It’s an order,” he says and the familiar tension is back, grinding its way into your skull and forcing you to fight back.

“You don’t think I can handle myself?” Anger spikes, and something worse beneath it. He doesn’t trust you. He doesn’t think you’re capable. The sting of the insult burns, and you feel it behind your eyes, fighting its way out in the form of tears.

“It’s not-”

“It’s not what, Ren? It’s _not_ that you think I’m too weak to fight?” You don’t want to hear him say it, but you can’t let him get away with it either. Either way, it’s going to break you.

“No-”

“Then what is it, Ren? Admit it, you wouldn’t tell anyone else to run if they were here instead, so what is it? Why don’t-”

His grip on your jaw is hard, but his mouth is soft against yours, and the fight leaves your body, surprise taking its place. His grip tightens as he feels you freeze, his kiss insistent but not overbearing, and you relax into the feeling despite the fact that your heart is trying to beat its way out of your chest.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispers in the dark, pressing his nose into your cheek, the heat of his breath brushing against your skin. It lights a fire in you, a fire that’s always been stoked by his touch, just dormant.

“What?” Your head is swimming and you can still taste him on your lips. Despite everything you had been feeling only moments ago, you want him to do it again. And again. And again.

“I can’t- I don’t want to see you get hurt.” He’s dropped his hold on his emotions, unblocked the dam that kept them from you, and you feel it. All of it. You nod, unable to speak but he feels the movement, his face still pressed against yours.

“You’re not going to lose me.” It’s easier to admit it, here in the dark, easier to let go of your pride and reveal the feelings you’ve hidden for so long. Feelings that he returns. You kiss him again, relishing the feeling of his face in your hands, the way he smiles against your mouth, a smile that you’ve never seen but can _feel_ so well you’d recognize it anywhere.

“You should get some rest,” he says when you pull away, “I’ll take first watch.”

“Okay,” you rest your head back again, against the rocks, but Ren reaches for you, pulling you close to him so that you can rest your head on his shoulder. It feels good to be close to him.

“You can rest now,” your hand finds its way into his, and the material of his cape is rough against your cheek, but his shoulder is strong and steady as it supports your head. It’s easy to fall asleep when you’re in his arms; you know he’ll keep you safe.


	12. It's A Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kylo x reader after TROS? I just really need a happy ending (one that doesn’t involve Rey/reylo because nope no likey, unless it involves Kylo realizing nope this isn’t love THATS love bye). Maybe finding someone after everything is over?
> 
> Hello lovely!! I have this for you, hope you like it! I have to be honest, I’m not a huge fan of Ben Solo/Bendemption (at least the way it was done in the movies), but this was really interesting to write! Thanks for giving me the opportunity 🥰
> 
> Ben Solo/Kylo Ren x Reader
> 
> Warnings: Angst, language, medical drama (kind of), prescription drug use? (I never know what to tag, or not tag, so …)

He’s sure that the first face he’d see when he opened his eyes would be his mother’s. He leaves them closed, not quite ready for it. Not sure what he’ll say; how can he face her again? There’s the soft brush of fingers against his hairline, a gentle, soothing touch, and he knows he’s delayed this reunion long enough. His eyes open, and he winces, adjusting to the blinding light, and a shadowy form blocking them. But it’s not the face of his mother that he sees, when his eyes finally adjust. It’s an angel. _You’re_ an angel.

“Beautiful,” he mumbles, and you look at him with wide eyes, lips parted in surprise, and the stroking of your fingers stops.

“You’re awake,” you whisper, breathless with shock, before you gather yourself. “He’s awake!” you call out, louder this time and for an audience he cannot see. He’s aching everywhere, the pain radiating through his body with seemingly no focal point. He never thought being dead would hurt this much. That’s when he notices it, underneath the ache that travels through his body. His heartbeat. He survived; the memories come back In pieces. The throne room. The cavern. The saber in his hands. Rey. But what had happened after?

“Where am I?” he mumbles, and you turn your attention back to him with a small frown.

“What? Just, don’t talk for a second,” you look away from him again and he tries to sit up, but you push him back down with a hand on his shoulder, still looking the other way, “can somebody get me a fucking medkit?” Since you have him trapped under the pressure of your hand, he satisfies his curiosity by looking around the small space—a ship, he thinks—and something about it looks familiar. He turns to the side and his worst suspicions are confirmed, a low moan escaping his throat. Maybe it would be better if he were dead than to be back in this place.

“I’m going to check you for wounds,” you say, and he can feel your fingers at the hem of his shirt, sliding it up the bruised skin of his torso. Your hands stop when you notice the hot tears rolling out of the corners of his eyes and falling into his hair.

“Hey,” you say to him, more gently this time. He closes his eyes against the bright lights, against your stare, against the main hold of his father’s ship. He feels your hands again, collecting his tears on the tips of your fingers. “Don’t cry, it’s alright. Just tell me where it hurts.”

Despite the pain he’s in, he still flushes at the cool touch of your fingers. It hurts everywhere, but there’s nothing you can do to help. He should have died. He wishes he were dead.

“It’s Ben, right?” That name. He feels now like he might be sick, and he moans again, a sound full of pain and regret that turns into a sob, and his body shakes with the hurt of it. He can hear the panic in your voice as you try to calm him, feel it rising from your skin, that sick prickling sensation becoming his own through the force. But you try to stay calm for his sake and that only makes it worse. “Hey, it’s alright. You’re safe now. Rey told us what you did. Hey, now.” You run your fingers of one hand through his hair again in another attempt to calm him, try to dry his tears with the other. He wishes you wouldn’t. He doesn’t deserve this kindness.

“She should have killed me. She should have let me die.” The remorse comes in waves that threaten to drown him, crashing over him again and again, relentless in their beatings. He wishes for an end to this—to his suffering, but even that would be undeserved. Death would be a mercy compared to this.

There’s a small prick, a slight sting at the crook of his arm, and he opens his eyes again. “For the pain,” you say, as you remove the needle, which swims in an out of his vision, “it will help you sleep.” He can already feel the pull of it, the weight in his limbs threatening to drag him under, a few final tears leaking from his eyes. You stay at his side, perched on the cot next to him, brushing your hand over his arm in long, soothing strokes. “You saved her life, Ben. You helped her save _all_ of our lives.”

“It doesn’t make up for it,” his breathing is slowing, his eyes falling shut, but he fights against it, “for everything I’ve done.”

“You’re right. But it’s a start.” He puzzles over your words, grasping at them in his hazy mind. He’s unsure whether it’s the drug or your presence that begins to calm him, but he finally gives in to it, letting his eyes fall closed.

“Will you stay with me?"he whispers, forming the words with the last of his strength. "I don’t- I can’t be alone."He may be imagining things, but he thinks he can feel you smile.

"As long as you like.” Ben smiles in response, just the faintest hint of a smile, before he falls into the warm, soft dark. He can already tell that he’ll want you around for a very long time. As long as it takes, to pay for what he’s done. After all, he has a new start. 


	13. Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kylo x reader. Kylo seeing reader for the first time and instantly realizing hes hooked, love at first sight. Tries to ignore it and realizes he can’t. Thanks!! / Kylo x Reader. Reader leaves Kylo speechless, from his POV? Much love and remain safe!
> 
> Hello lovely anons! Thank you for these wonderful requests, I have decided to combine them because they are so similar, and I hope you love it! This is actually an idea that I’ve played around with for a long time, and I’m so glad I finally got the opportunity to write it!
> 
> Requests are closed ✨
> 
> Kylo Ren X Fem! Reader
> 
> AN: Oh my hell this is a long one (like over 4k words). I’m not going to check—because I am incredibly lazy—but I think this is the longest request I’ve written. Warnings for major pining, angst, Hux being kind of an ass, and mentions of violence/possible minor character death!

If you asked those who profit most from the seedier desires of the galaxy, they would tell you that the Coruscant Ballet is the place to make a pretty coin. More credits have changed hands in the grand ballroom of the Coruscant Theatre than in any of the casinos on Canto Bight, and as such, the ballet is host to most of the galaxy’s elite. If you’re looking for someone to solve a problem—to make someone disappear, to find you something rare or strictly off-the-market, to eliminate your competition—you’ll find them at the ballet.

Ren knows this, but he still doesn’t understand why that means _he_ has to be here. All he knows is that there’s a ticket with his name on it, a _special invitation_ from someone the general had been doing business with, and that he was expected to attend. The general prattled on in the transport, rambling about _security risks_ and _shows of strength_ and _rallying support_. Ren wasn’t listening, not really. He has his own concerns, and they don’t always align with the general’s. Especially when it means that he’ll have to sit through _three hours_ of some ridiculous performance when he could be doing something else. Literally _anything_ else.

The foyer is packed with people—well-dressed and conceited, of course—and the volume in the room noticeably decreases when he and the general enter through the large and ornate doors, the silence immediately filled by violent whispers. They make a show of speaking quietly, but Ren knows exactly what they’re saying about him, what questions they snicker to each other when they get a sight of him. It could be much worse, all things considered; this is Ren’s first public appearance of the kind, and—if he has any say in the matter—it will be the last. Part of him itches to give these people something _real_ to talk about, some horrifying demonstration that they could recount later at their other ridiculous social gatherings. Maybe he’d suffocate someone, or launch a whole group of them through the windows.

He doesn’t do any of it, of course. He just follows the general into the theatre. The show is about to start.

At least the seats are comfortable, Ren thinks, almost _too_ plush, and they dim the lights as the show begins, throwing the audience into relative darkness. Maybe he could sleep without drawing attention to himself. He is feeling tired—always tired lately—and he rests heavily in his chair, letting his eyelids drift closed, ready to take advantage of this time as best he’s able. His vision blurs between half-closed eyes, and the music begins, soft and sweet and easily ignored. 

Everything changes when you take to the stage. Seeing you emerge from behind the heavy curtains, it’s like a lightning strike. His breath catches in his throat, he’s feeling wide awake—more than wide awake—buzzed, electric, _starving_. He’s never seen anything like you before. He doesn’t know how to act.

The hours pass like minutes when you dance, and he’s on the edge of his seat for all of them, his eyes drawn to you and he’s helpless to resist, not that he would ever want to look anywhere else. Your movements speak to power and grace and the command you hold over your body impressive in the extreme, even to someone like him. Ren is both completely ignorant of the story and deeply invested in it; he feels everything you experience, the joy, the betrayal, the mourning. You seem to live it, lost in the tale you create as you move to the music, and when he watches you take your final bow, he’s hooked. He has to see you do that again.

The curtain closes, the light returns without warning and it breaks Ren out of his stupor. Still, he’s full of restless energy, nervous—like there’s some unseen threat, some important quest that he’s left uncompleted. The audience begins to file out much too slowly—and with the leisurely pace the wealthy always seem to take, like time is infinite and free to waste. Ren doesn’t have the patience to wait, not when he feels like this.

“Stars, I hate the theatre,” General Hux mumbles under his breath as they stand by their seats, waiting for a break in the crowd, and it irks Ren, pushing him closer to the edge.

“Maybe you lack the culture needed to appreciate it,” he replies snidely, mostly to get a rise out of the general. _Mostly_. Regardless of his true intentions, the general is offended, and Ren allows himself a small smile over this little victory.

The audience trickles out of the theatre and after an eternity of waiting, Ren finally makes it into the spectacle that is the grand ballroom, but his eyes don’t rest on anything until he’s found you again.

He catches sight of you on the far end of the room with the other dancers, all out of your costumes from the performance and instead wearing dresses in varying pastel shades, looking more like confections or ornaments than trained professionals. The other girls, especially the younger ones, whisper and giggle nervously as they survey the crowd, but you do not participate, smiling good-naturedly but remaining still and silent. When he catches sight of you, the negative feelings inside collapse. He’s free again. He’s not sure how you’ve managed to hold that kind of power over him, but he doesn’t care about that now.

“That woman, with the dancers-” Hux interrupts Ren’s thoughts, gesturing in the direction Ren is already looking, not that he could tell, “is Lady Stadixe. I need to speak with her.” Ren reluctantly takes his eyes off of you to scope out the woman in question. She stands at your side, looking serious—and seriously irritated—shooting angry glances down the line of girls every so often to silence their giggling. Ren doesn’t have to search the minds of the other guests to know that Lady Stadixe plays a much greater role here at the Coruscant Ballet than some kind of handler for the performers. If the general needs to speak to her then she must know about the dealings that take place between her patrons—probably arranges them herself: a choreographer in more ways than one.

General Hux cuts through the crowd, around the edge of the dance floor and through the rest of the guests. Ren can feel his heartbeat build in his chest, the pulses becoming more rapid and more violent as he nears you. The crowd thins, and there’s an eruption of giggles from some of the younger dancers when they see him before Lady Stadixe quiets them with a sharp bark. A strange feeling arrives and he allows himself to sit with it only for a moment—he wishes he weren’t such a spectacle, wishes he could approach you like any other man, wishes to be without the reputation, the title. It’s only for a moment, but Ren thinks he would kill to be someone else right now if it meant he could take you by the hand.

“Lady Stadixe, allow me to introduce myself,” General Hux begins, greeting the lady with a slight bow, “I am General Hux of the First Order, and this is Commander Ren.” Ren nods in response, out of habit, but his eyes stay on you and he’s terrified to find that you’re returning his gaze through the mask, even if you may not know it. You’re prettier up close, he thinks, and your eyes are alight with good humor, but he can’t pay attention to any of that because—when you look at him—he’s sure that no mask could stop you from seeing _everything_.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Lady Stadixe responds, her tone curt even if her words are polite, “allow me to introduce you to my dancers.” She gestures down the line and you all curtsy in unison, bowing deep and low to the ground, but you keep your eyes on him, a trace of a smile on your lips. Ren has no idea what you’re thinking, his own nerves interrupting each time he tries to reach out to you through the force, but he continues his attempts anyways, desperate and desperately curious. Your smile is maddening, a secret in its own right, and he finds himself unable to decipher it. A first.

“This is our principal dancer, and the lead for tonight’s production,” Stadixe says as you rise, and you offer your hand to the general first before extending it to Ren. He wants to take it, he wants it very badly, but he’s found that his limbs aren’t obeying his commands, not when you’re looking at him like that.

“It’s a pleasure,” you say, before dropping your hand with a little stutter at his refusal, smoothing it over your skirt to make the movement more natural. You smirk, just slightly, before glancing at the other dancers, looking back at him when you say, “ I’ve never met a force user before.” Giggling breaks out again, and Ren isn’t sure if it’s at his expense or not, but it doesn’t matter, not really. Not if you’re going to keep talking about him.

He should respond, say something, but he can’t think, and he’s petrified at the idea that he might say something stupid. Ren can’t risk it, not in a moment like this, not when he so desperately wants for you to like him. Unfortunately, that gives General Hux a chance to fill the silence.

“I’ve found that they aren’t terribly impressive,” Hux replies, and the bitterness is unmistakable, but it only serves to amuse you more, your smile growing wider, and you trap your tongue between your teeth in an attempt to curb any errant laughter. Ren finds it very difficult to resist the urge to throw the general into a wall. He finds it more difficult to resist the urge to run his thumb over your bottom lip.

“I heard they can read minds,” you fix your eyes onto the general with a steady look, leaning in a little closer as you challenge his words, and the girls behind you mumble to each other more seriously. Even Lady Stadixe seems intrigued now, tuned in to the conversation enough that she doesn’t bother to quiet the others. He feels like a creature in a zoo, some grotesque _thing_ for the others to ogle at, but not to you. He may be mistaken, but he thinks you might actually be defending him.

“Yes, he can,” Hux admits with some reluctance, and the space fills with bright, flaring anxiety as those closest search their most recent thoughts, terrified of what Ren might have learned during this short conversation. None of them need to worry—not that he can explain that right now—the only thoughts he’s interested in are yours.

“Sounds impressive to me.” Some of the other girls nod in agreement, and you sear the general with another challenging stare. Hux shrinks slightly, unable to completely control the sneer that threatens to take over his face, and turns to address Lady Stadixe again, a silent acceptance of his defeat.

“Is he always this quiet?” One of the younger girls interrupts before the general can speak, unwilling to let the novelty of Ren’s presence die, and he fills with dread.

“No,” Hux responds, and he actually sounds surprised as he turns his gaze to Ren, his eyes cold and calculating. _He knows_ , Ren can feel it, and he’s eager for revenge for the snide comment Ren made earlier, as well as a million other things Ren had not come to regret until this moment. Hux turns back deliberately, leaning in a little ways before he speaks, but he makes sure to be loud enough for every one of the dancers to hear, “normally he never shuts up. I can’t imagine what’s changed.”

The general’s stare is pointed as he appraises you with his eyes, his gaze roaming from your head to your feet and back, and he quirks one brow to emphasize his point. Everyone takes notice, some of the girls squealing with laughter when they realize what he means, and you look at him wide eyed before you turn your gaze to the ground, a blush spreading across your cheeks. Ren wishes he had thrown the general into a wall when he had the chance. He still thinks he might, but there’s nothing he can do to salvage this moment now.

Hux seems satisfied with the chaos he’s caused, and he stands up straighter, adjusting his gloves before turning back to address Lady Stadixe, “If I may, there’s a matter I’d like to discuss with you in private,” and Stadixe nods, gesturing for Hux to follow her into a far corner away from listening ears. Ren turns to go as well, glad for a chance to escape this living hell in the form of giggling girls, but Hux pauses, turning to face him again.

“Why don’t you stay here with the dancers, Ren, while I speak to Lady Stadixe,” he says, his eyes alight with a vicious delight, “I’m sure you’ll find some way to _entertain_ yourself.”

Ren stops, hoping to quash any embarrassment he might feel with pure rage. He’s already planning which parts of the _Finalizer_ he would tear into first when he returned, thinking about what would anger the general the most. By the time he’s done, Hux would regret everything about tonight.

“Did you enjoy the show, Commander Ren?” He hears you speak behind him, and it pulls him away from his thoughts, back to the embarrassment he felt so strongly earlier. He turns, and manages a nod, keenly aware of the delight in the eyes of every single dancer down the line, all listening avidly to your conversation … if you could call it that.

“It’s alright if you don’t want to speak,” you say quietly, stepping a little closer in an attempt to make your chat a private one, and you lower your voice so that only he can hear, “I don’t mind filling the silence. Besides, Lady Stadixe gets very cross if she feels that we’re not keeping our guests entertained; I’m sure you understand?” He nods again, relaxing into your presence, and the other girls slowly lose interest, choosing instead to search the ballroom for other sources of entertainment. Without the watching eyes of the other girls, and the damn general around—Ren feels like he might actually be able to say something to you, might be able to tell you exactly how much he enjoyed your performance, how talented he thinks you are. How beautiful he thinks you are.

“I hate to interrupt-” The voice comes from Ren’s right, and he looks to its source, finding a snide-looking man beside him, who reaches for your hand, pressing a soft kiss to your fingers, “I was hoping that you might favor me with a dance.”

“Of course.” It only takes you a moment before you agree graciously, and Ren is crushed, foolishly hoping that you would refuse in favor of staying with him even though he’s given you no reason to do that. You flash him an apologetic smile as you’re whisked away to the dance floor, and the disappointment is prolonged. There was so much he wanted to say to you, and now he’ll never get the chance.

The man leads you to the dance floor at the center of the room, a possessive hand placed at your waist. There’s jealousy spreading through the room—not only his, but others as well—permeating the space like an oil slick, other young men who had not been brave enough to interrupt your moment with Ren redirecting their anger to your new companion.

“His name is Erichar Kempmont.” Ren had not noticed the return of Lady Stadixe, but she stands at his side now, without the general, speaking with the quiet nature of someone used to dealing in secrets, “he is the wealthiest of the girl’s suitors.”

Ren doesn’t respond, his mouth growing dry. _Suitors_. Multiple. Of course. He should have known. Should have expected it from the beginning, but his vision had been clouded by his desire, by your smile.

“She is very talented, of course,” Lady Stadixe continues, her eyes trained on you with impenetrable focus, “but talent alone will not sustain her forever. She’ll need security, someone to take care of her when her career has finished. That is something I have promised to provide for her, and I do not break those promises.” She glares at Ren, staring him down despite her small stature, waiting for him to issue some kind of challenge. He doesn’t.

“Stay away from her,” She finishes with some uncertainty; he’s unnerved her with his lack of a response. Ren should leave her like this, let her believe what she wants, but the _order_ she’s given him leaves him simmering with anger.

“Are you threatening me?” he asks quietly, and the words growl out through his vocoder, leaving her shaking.

“So you do speak,” she replies, trying to hide her fear with feigned indifference, even though she knows there is little point in hiding it.“ It would be foolish of me to threaten someone like you, of course. But you could consider it a warning.”

Lady Stadixe departs just in time for Ren to watch another man ask you for a dance, and his jaw tightens. What business did that woman have telling you what to do? In trying to control him? The anger refuses to dissipate, forming tight and firm deep in his chest. 

“There you are,” it’s the general who interrupts him this time, looking rather flustered, his eyes searching the room skittishly, “There’s one more person I need to speak to, and then we can leave this awful place.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Ren asks, his leftover irritation from his conversation with Lady Stadixe mingling with brand new irritation at the general. “I thought I was meant to entertain myself?”

Hux flushes with annoyance at Ren’s stubbornness, his pale skin becoming marred by red splotches. He feels no remorse for it; the general has earned much more of Ren’s difficult behavior after tonight—he’ll have to get used to it.

“This person I’ll be meeting with,” Hux explains through gritted teeth, “is notoriously … difficult. I’m concerned that they might try to run. Make yourself useful and guard the exit. I’m sure _she_ won’t miss you in your absence.” Hux gestures vaguely to the dance floor and scowls before he departs, disappearing into the crowd again.

Ren moves toward the doors with steady-minded determination. There’s nothing left for him here anyways; you’re time for the rest of the night has been claimed, it seems, by the suitors Lady Stadixe had been so kind to point out. He’ll wait for the general in the foyer until he’s done with his ridiculous meetings and he’ll forget about the ballet completely. He won’t think about the way the light reflected in your eyes as you danced. Won’t picture the way you moved like all music was created for you to give it meaning. Wouldn’t imagine what it would be like to hold you in his arms.

Gods, he’s being juvenile. Was a pretty smile and a few kind words all it took for him to lose his mind? He’s only known that you existed for a few hours, only held your attention for a few minutes and it has him acting completely deranged.

Moonlight pours through the windows of the foyer, which has been left dark now that the guests have all been moved into the ballroom. The room is larger and colder than he remembers it, and somehow made emptier by his presence. He waits, observing the room without much interest, only vaguely aware of the passage of time, marked by the change in the music as it spills in from the gaps in the ballroom doors, muted by distance. It’s only after three, maybe four songs, that he notices that something else has changed: the faintest hint of light is escaping beneath the theatre doors on the other side of the foyer.

Ren knows that he should stay where he is and watch for the general, but he’s overcome with uncharacteristic curiosity when he senses you behind those closed doors. Part of him would like to walk away, to ignore you as the lady had encouraged. Another part of him knows that he might not like what he would see if he chose to enter the theatre; maybe you were not alone, if one of your many suitors had brought you there for a second away from prying eyes. He ignores both of the competing voices, opening the door as quietly as possible, peering into the room beyond.

You are alone, he finds, and on the stage, moving without music, dancing without seeing, your eyes shut tight to the empty seats. Even without the audience, the accompaniment, the costume, or the lights, you perform with the same rigor you had before, and Ren is mesmerized all over again. Somehow, even after your stellar performance earlier in the evening, you seem to push yourself harder: jumping higher, spinning faster, your movements more precise and powerful than Ren can begin to comprehend.

You finish your routine, center stage, your head down and your breathing hard and fast from the exertion. Ren is careful not to make a sound, terrified of interrupting your moment, but when you look up, your eyes find him immediately—as if you knew he was there all along. A few different emotions flash across your face, but embarrassment is the one that sticks, and you drop your eyes to the floor again, folding in on yourself.

“How long have you been here?” You speak quietly, but your voice carries all the way to the back of the theatre. This is it, Ren finally has his chance to speak to you, alone.

“Not long,” his words are too stilted, his voice too menacing for his liking, but you aren’t disturbed by it, and so he continues, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No need to worry about that,” you say, hopping lightly from the stage, walking slowly up the aisle towards him, “I should probably return to the party now. I just needed a quick break. Too many watchful eyes in the ballroom; I’m sure you understand.” Ren _does_ understand the feeling, although he’s not sure why its one you would share.

“I thought you might be used to watching eyes, as a performer.” You’re inching ever closer, one row of seats at a time, and each step tightens the vice grip at his heart, restricting his ability to breathe in the most pleasant kind of fashion.

“It’s different-” you say with a nod towards the doors and the ballroom beyond, “in there. I always know what’s expected of me on stage, what they’re looking for, what I can do. It’s … not the same everywhere else. Sometimes I need an escape.”

Stars, it’s like you’re inside his head, pulling the words out and placing them in your own mouth. He knows _exactly_ how you feel.

“Do you even get an escape?” You’ve finally reached him, your lips curving humorously around your whispered words. The small amount of space between your bodies feels solidified, heavy even, the pressure of your presence almost as enticing as the pressure of your touch. He knows he should not feel this way, but his body and mind are on two different planes right now. 

“No, I don’t,” he says, and you smile sadly, always smiling, as your tongue runs smoothly over your parted lips.

“Can you breathe without it?” Your hands creep up into his line of sight, and you gesture to the mask. All he can manage is a subtle nod of his head, trying to remain composed when every part of him is threatening to combust at the feeling of your fingers searching around the edge of the helmet, flexing slightly when you find the releases. He closes his eyes as you tug the item over his head, unwilling to admit that he’s afraid of what you might feel when you see his face.

“That’s much better,” you say, and he lets his eyes open, his eyes studying you for the first time without the mask. “Would you consider this an escape?” You set the mask down on the seat next to you, and it stares up at him expectant, waiting.

“I would,” he doesn’t like the way his voice sounds now, without the vocoder to mask the lingering emotion behind the two words. It feels like a confession, like a weakness, and he hates that part of himself almost as much as he wants you.

“I know lots of ways to escape,” you say, apparently ignorant to his inner turmoil, “would you like to know my favorite?” You won’t meet his eyes, staring at your fingers instead, which you brush over the material of his sleeve, and the feeling leaves a trail of unraveling nerves in its wake. You can’t be suggesting what he thinks you’re suggesting. This is some kind of fever dream. There’s no way that you would want him the same way that he wants you.

“Yes,” his reply is deep and breathless, but it brings that smile back to your face, and you look up at him again, your other hand curling gently around his neck, your touch feather-light and fragile. The theatre fades away into nothingness—Ren can only think about the space between your mouth and his that shrinks infinitesimally, your movement spanning hours, days, aeons. He doesn’t care. You’re _so_ close.

The blaster shot throws time back to a normal speed and you startle, jumping in his arms before you stagger back away from him, searching for the source of the noise that’s immediately followed by screams. You look at him only for a moment before you both run to the doors, Ren grabbing his helmet first and replacing it over his head, no time to mourn the loss of your touch.

Guests pour out of the ballroom doors, tripping over each other in their finery, ignoring the ripped hems and lost shoes as they force their way to safety. You’re almost swept up by the crowd, but Ren holds you back, one arm wrapped securely around your waist and your fingers push tiny bruises into his skin underneath his uniform as you search desperately through the crowd, trying to spy a hint of your friends, anyone you might recognize who could explain what you had missed.

“Ren!” The general calls out, breaking free of the crowd and forcing his way to the far wall. If he has anything to say about Ren’s absence from the foyer, or your presence here with him, he doesn’t share it, running a gloved hand through his hair, forcing it back after it had been jostled out of place by the stampeding crowd, “we need to leave. Now.”

“Please, what happened?” you wrestle yourself out of Ren’s grasp, grabbing the general by the arm with desperation, “we heard the shot, is everyone alright?”

“I’m not sure. I didn’t see it.” It’s obvious that Hux is lying, to you and Ren both, but there’s no chance for either of you to confront him, because he’s headed towards the doors again, pulling Ren along with him. Ren turns back—maybe to see if you’re alright, maybe to bring you with him, out of harm’s way—he’s not exactly sure, but the press of the crowd is too strong and too fast; he’s hardly able to think before he’s lost sight of you. He didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye.


	14. Self-Defense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I would love to request because I love your soulmate story and I love this concept so much: Kylo falling for and marrying a woman that is his polar opposite (she’s kind, polite, gentle) and helping her adjust to her Empress role and encouraging her to snap if she needs to and care less about hurting anyone.
> 
> Hello friend! Thank you for your patience, this was such a sweet request and I know it’s taken me forever. Inspiration struck last night, and now I have this for you! Hope you love it!
> 
> (The original soulmate AU are chapters 3, 4, 6, and 8 if you'd like to re-read 😊)
> 
> Requests are closed, but might be opening soon! ✨
> 
> Kylo Ren X Empress! Reader
> 
> Warnings: Murder (force choking), men being assholes, and maybe language?

You like to think that you’ve adjusted well to life on the Star Destroyer, but you haven’t quite gotten used to this—the eyes that always follow as you move through the corridor, the way the people practically fall out of your way, terrified to so much as brush a hand up against you. No, you haven’t gotten used to it at all, but that doesn’t mean that you don’t like it. It’s nice to be seen, sometimes, and nicer to be respected—especially because you never had to work to earn that respect here, unlike before.

No, this life is much nicer, for more reasons than this one, and you smile to yourself like a little girl when you remember your favorite. _None of these people know_ , you think _, none of them realize that their Supreme Leader becomes a blushing mess whenever I’m around._

You had been prepared from the beginning for the arranged marriage to fail. Your father had prepared you for the possibility, always with an air of inevitability. He’d sigh, as he wandered away from his desk, and remind you that you might just be too _soft_ for something like this. That there was no shame in coming home if things just didn’t work out. He had not prepared you for this, however—for the way your heart started beating faster whenever you caught Ren looking at you, for the gentle way he worshiped you with his hands, for how much you _missed_ him when he was away.

That’s why you’re looking for him now, even though it feels a little silly to seek him out when you don’t necessarily need anything. But he _has_ been gone for so long, and you just want to see his face, even if it’s only for a few minutes. You know he’s returned; you found the command ship in the hangar, but he hasn’t been in any of the places you would normally look. It makes you nervous; you don’t like being out of your quarters without Ren by your side, and you’re not really sure where you’re going . . . or how to get back. Panic spikes in your heart. At least you have a real reason to find Ren now. 

You try to focus on your breathing, pulling air into your lungs in a slow and steady rhythm as you continue down the corridor, keeping an eye out for anyone or anything that looks familiar, but the ship is still so new to you, and you think you might be more lost than before. There’s a familiar ache in your throat, and you can feel your lip begin to quiver of its own accord as you turn back the way you came, desperate for something that you recognize, something that could guide you back to your quarters.

“What are you doing here?” There’s a voice, and a man beside you—one you’re sure you’ve never met before—but you’re grateful all the same because he seems very important, with his greatcoat and his stern gaze. 

“Hello-” you look at the rankings on his sleeve, trying to recall the right order and arrangement before hazarding a guess, “ _Admiral_ , I’m looking for the Supreme Leader.” He frowns, grabbing you by the arm and pulling you down another corridor, deeper into a part of the ship that you don’t recognize.

“You can’t be here,” he hisses between gritted teeth, and the pressure of his grip hurts, _burns_ almost, and the stinging in your eyes returns as you try and fail to pull yourself from his grasp, with little success.

“Stupid girl,” he continues, “what do you think you’re doing, wandering around the ship like this? The Supreme Leader has enough to deal with, he doesn’t have time to babysit his fucking wife.” 

_Babysit_? You want to cry in earnest now, but you force yourself to swallow the tears, biting into the meat of your cheek to hide the effect his words have on you. You thought you had escaped this when you left your family, your _father_ and his sons, but maybe you were wrong. Maybe it didn’t matter where you went, or who you married. Maybe people would always see you as a _stupid little girl_. And maybe they were right.

One tear slips out of the corner of your eye, and then another, and then they don’t stop, trailing down your cheeks in silence as you stifle any gasp that might escape through tight-pressed lips. He’s not looking at you—the man with the formidable grip and killer eyes—and you hope it stays that way because if he sees you like this, well, you don’t know what will happen.

The unknown corridors morph into one that you recognize, and you let out a shaky sigh of relief, grateful that you could at least be back in your chambers, even if you couldn’t be with Ren. The admiral lets go, finally, and the blood rushes through your arm, filling your fingers with a fizzing tingle.

“I assume you know your way back from here,” he says, and you nod earnestly, wiping the tears from your face with a quick hand, ready for him to finally leave you alone. He sneers, strutting off back the way you came, and you let your shoulders slump, curling into yourself as you walk back to your quarters. It’s been a long time since someone has made you feel this small. You’d like to forget the feeling.

There’s tension in the conference room when Admiral Wilfer finally arrives. Ren is unphased, but he knows that General Hux is fuming, and he sits back in his chair, ready to watch the confrontation that looms overhead.

“Admiral, this meeting was supposed to start ten minutes ago,” Hux begins, angry but in control, staring at the man from the head of the table, “would you care to explain why you’re late?” 

Ren hasn’t decided yet how he feels about Wilfer. He’s only worked on the _Steadfast_ for a short while, but there’s something about him that Ren finds grating, especially now as he finds his seat with such a self-satisfied attitude, flashing a smug grin at the general without speaking. The other officers bristle at his bold behavior. None of them would dare make the general wait. 

“Pardon me, sir,” he begins, “but I had a little run-in with the Supreme Leader’s wife.” The temperature in the room plummets and everyone notices—except Wilfer, of course—the officer’s frozen in their seats at the mention of you. It’s Ren’s turn now to be furious, and even Hux turns to him, waiting to see what might happen next.

“You saw the empress?” his voice is rife with anger, but the admiral takes no notice, letting out a little chuckle before he continues.

“Oh yes,” he replies, “she was out wandering the corridors, but I put a stop to that, let me assure you.” Ren grips the edge of the table, seething, and the material bends underneath his fingers, living indents along the edge of it like it’s nothing. A few men flinch, and some even try to get Wilfer’s attention, hoping to signal with their eyes that he should _stop talking_. Now. He doesn’t get the message.

“Women can be so temperamental, I’ve found,” he continues, “it takes a stern hand to keep them in line, but I assure you, sir-” he’s cut off, the only thing that manages to escape his lips now is a slurred choking sound as he reaches for his throat, clawing pointlessly at the invisible hand that rests there.

Maybe Ren should say something, explain to Wilfer exactly how he landed himself in this position, but Ren is blindsided by the rage. There’s only one thought in his mind, and it’s this: he’s glad that _you’re_ not here right now, grateful that you’re not part of this audience, because he’s going to kill this man, slowly, painfully, and he’s going to enjoy every second. 

The sounds he makes are horrible, and the others cower in their seats, covering their eyes or turning away so they won’t have to watch the man begin to swell—his face turning red, then purple—hoping that they wouldn’t be haunted by this image later when they slept, but Ren relishes it, relishes it even more as he pulls the memories of the encounter from the man’s mind. He can see your tear-stained face so clearly, and it nourishes his anger, letting the animal inside of him rear its head and prepare to feast.

The snap of Admiral Wilfer’s neck shatters the deadly silence of the room; the body drops, and Ren shoves his chair back without a word, marching to the doors. “Someone take care of that,” he leaves the men with one final command, ignoring the blend of fear and anger and curiosity from the officers inside as the door closes behind him. The meeting, how ever important it might be, could wait for his return. He has to see you, now—but there’s one thing he needs to do first.

You’re still crying, when he enters your shared chambers; he hears the little gasps you try to stifle with your hand before he finds you with his eyes, curled up on the bed, swaddled in the blanket with your back to the door. Anger and bile rise up in the back of his throat as your sadness slinks through the air, but he swallows them down. You don’t need to see him angry, not when you’re like this.

He removes his helmet, tossing it onto one of the couches along with the little gift he had picked out for you on the way here. You turn when you hear him, blessing him with a watery smile.

“You’re home,” you say with genuine joy despite the tears, and his heart skips a beat. No matter how many times he leaves, he’s still not used to how happy you are when he comes back. Nobody has ever missed him before; he’s surprised to find that it’s a wonderful feeling, but there are lots of things about being with you that surprise him. He moves towards the bed, shedding his gloves as he goes, removing the cape, letting them fall wherever they land before he sits on the edge of the bed and greets you properly.

He marvels at how small your face feels in his hands, the way his thumbs can caress your moistened cheeks while his other fingers can curl into your hair. Your kisses are gentle and affectionate, your grip soft and devoted as you pull him closer, and it still makes him melt, the anger long forgotten now that he’s here with you.

“I missed you,” you whisper when you pull away, nuzzling into his chest and wrapping your arms around him, filling his chest with a comforting glow. He’ll let you stay like this for the moment, savoring the feeling of loving and being loved. It’s something he never thought he’d experience, and something he’s sure he doesn’t deserve. 

“I’m sorry that I didn’t come to see you earlier,” he says, and you shake your head against his chest, chastising him silently for the apology.

“You don’t have to be sorry, I know that you’re busy,” you reply, pushing off of him and brushing the hair out of your eyes. Even in the semi-darkness, he can see the mark developing on your arm from Admiral Wilfer’s grip, and he’s reminded of why he came to see you in the first place.

“I brought you something,” he stands from the bed, moving to grab the package he had left with his helmet. You shift into a sitting position, wiggling with excitement and closing your eyes, and he stifles a smile. He brings you gifts whenever he goes away, and he loves to watch you receive them, the little smiles and soft squeals when you open your eyes, so excited to see whatever it is he’s laid in your hands. He knows you won’t feel the same about this gift, but still.

It’s a delicate blade—standard issue from the armory—about as long as your forearm, and your hands dip a little from the unexpected weight of it when he rests it against your palms. Your eyes fly open, and you look up at him curiously, waiting for an explanation.

“A vibroblade?” you ask, holding the weapon apart from you, like it might bite you if you aren’t careful, so averse to the idea of violence. Ren takes it from your hands again and you relax slightly, tugging at his arm so he’ll sit next to you.

“I know about the admiral,” he says when he lands on the mattress, and you turn your gaze away in shame, tearing up again at the mention of the incident. Ren grips your jaw in his hand, turning you to face him, stroking his thumb along the delicate bone that rests beneath your skin. 

“I’ve taken care of it,” he says, and this time the tears that collect in your lashes are tears of gratitude, and you press a kiss to his cheek, forcing a blush to spread beneath your lips.

“Then why the blade?” you ask, sliding closer and running one finger over the sheath of it as it rests in his lap. He knows it probably shouldn’t, but the scene excites him, and the blood roars in his ears rushes from his head. He lets the blade slips from his fingers, oblivious as it lands on the ground with a soft thud.

“I’m going to teach you how to use it,” he says, pulling you into his lap, pressing his lips against the thrumming of your pulse in your neck, relishing the way you squirm against him, your hands wending their way into his hair, urging him on with a soft tug. Gods, he’s _really_ missed this. He jerks you closer, one strong arm securing you in his lap— _you’re throne_ , as far as he’s concerned.

“I’m going to teach you how to use it,” he repeats again, this time against your jaw, and you shiver at the feeling, “and the next time someone puts their hands on you without your permission, you’re going to show them what happens when they provoke _my_ empress.” 


	15. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! May I please request a fic in which Kylo is sad and the reader tries to comfort him? Thank you so much! I hope you’re doing well :)
> 
> Hello lovely! This is such a sweet request, thanks for sending it in! I’m so glad I got to write it, hope you like it 🥰
> 
> Oneshot requests are closed ✨
> 
> Kylo Ren X Reader
> 
> AN: Why do so many of the things I write center around medical drama? Anyways, as far as warnings go, we’ve got discussions of an injury, some trauma, and it takes place immediately after the ending of TFA, so discussion of those events as well!

The doctor explains his injuries to you with a cool kind of detachment, but you can see that even he is shaking. You're only half listening; try as you might, you can't get your body to cooperate as you're overcome with a dull buzz that fills your mind and blankets your nerves. Is this what it feels like to be in shock? You had managed to escape Starkiller uninjured—physically at least—but your ears still ring with the sounds of explosions; you can still feel the way they echo through your body like a second heartbeat.

"Are you still listening?" the words float towards you, breaking through the dull ringing that won’t leave your ears, and you're just barely able to grasp them, your attention flying back to the doctor as he stares at you with reticence.

"I'm sorry," your apology is automatic, and it feels hollow as it leaves your lips, but he seems to understand. None of you had thought things would end this way. All of you are at a loss for what happens next.

"His injuries aren't extensive, and we were able to stop the bleeding," the doctor repeats, and this time you force yourself to listen, watching him with concerted effort to keep your mind from wandering, "but they are quite a few of them, including a laceration across his face that will almost certainly scar."

"Oh gods," your words are barely a whisper as your hand finds its way to your mouth involuntarily, and you can feel your eyes pool with tears. You had only caught a glimpse of him when they dragged him onto the command ship before bringing him here, just a sliver of his dark black cloak fluttering through the still air moments before the ship had fled the base.

The prospect of a scar is frightening—the weaker part of you wants to run from it, wants to run from any reminder of this waking nightmare. You lean on the part that is stronger. Ren needs you; you can't run from him. "I want to see him. Is he awake?"

The doctor pauses, and the worry bubbles up in your chest. He won't meet your eyes and for a moment you'd like to smack him—your sick, hot anger searching for any target on which it could unleash itself. The doctor sees it build within you, a small whimper escaping his lips before he spits out the words, "He's awake, he refused any medication for the pain-" and then, more quietly, "-he said he won't see anyone."

"He'll see me." You brush past the man with determination, and he doesn't try to stop you, jumping out of the way instead, following you with his eyes as you walk through the doors of the medbay.

You find him lying still on a mattress in one of the rooms with his back to the door, and he doesn't turn to face you, curling further into himself as soon as he senses your presence. He's uncovered from the waist up except for the parts of his skin swathed in thick bandages—his waist, one of his shoulders—but he’s alive and awake and, for the first time since you fled the base, you can breathe again.

The air is thick with a scent that makes your stomach lurch: the metallic smell of blood and the ointments meant to mask it, but you're able to block all of that out as you approach him, watching the gentle signs of life, the way his shoulders rise and fall with shuddering breaths. He peers up at you with one eye, the unscarred one, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder before he turns away again, burrowing his face deeper into his pillow, hiding from your sight.

He mumbles something low and full of pain, maybe the words go away, but you ignore them, approaching with slow, measured steps until you’re within reach. You let one hand stretch out, let your fingers spread over the defined contours of muscle on his shoulders. He doesn’t react to your touch, not at first, but you wait, ever patient, watching as he unfurls from his hiding place, waiting for him to let you in.

It’s a subtle move, just a nod of his head, beckoning you closer and you waste no time, moving around the bed and crawling into the empty space on the mattress, placing both hands against the broad planes of his chest so that you can feel his heartbeat beneath your fingers.

"I thought-" you whisper, but you can't finish the words when you feel your voice shake, can't allow yourself to think about what could have been, "you're alive."

You meet his eyes for the first time; you see the scar, unbandaged. He watches you warily, searching your expression for disgust, or fear, but you could never feel that way, not when you're looking at him. And he can't contain himself, not when you have such love in your eyes and comfort in your touch as your hands move up his body to rest against his cheeks. The words just spill out.

"I killed Han Solo."

"It had to be done."

"The scavenger, she got away."

"You'll find her again."

"How can you be so sure?" It's a demanding question, one that's not easily answered. After what happened on Starkiller, how can you be sure of anything?

For a moment you're lost, staring deep into the warm dark pools of his eyes. There are many things that you are unsure about; Ren is not one of them.

You lean against his chest, careful to avoid the bandages, pulling yourself flush to him, resting your head so that you can hear his heartbeat. "You're nothing if not determined, Ren. It's one of the things I like most about you."

"One of the things?" His voice trembles, remnants of emotion he couldn't express while you were looking him in the eye coming now through these words. You can hear the neediness in the way he says it. The desperation for assurance after so great a loss, and you're more than willing to provide.

You turn, just slightly, just enough to rest your head on his shoulder so that you can look at him, and so that he can look at you, if he chooses. "I love your hair, how soft it feels between my fingers." One of your hands snakes up to his hairline, brushing the soft, damp tendrils away from his face, and he lets a stifled breath out through his nose; you feel it feather against your wrist as you trail your hand down lower.

"I love the freckles on your cheeks, down your shoulders," you continue, tracing over the planes and angles of his face, the hollow of his throat. It’s so easy to make him tremble, and you let yourself enjoy the way his jaw tightens as he swallows roughly before his eyes meet yours.

"I love your eyes. I love the way you look at me." You shift closer, replacing the movement of your fingers with soft kisses, ghosting your lips over his pulse point, up to his jaw, and his eyes fall shut.

"But how will I be able to look at you now? How can you love me with _this_?" His voice breaks when he talks about the wound, a single tear slipping down the side of his face. You hold him with both your hands, you wait until he looks at you.

"I will love you more with that scar than I loved you before," you say it with such conviction that he has to know that you mean it, and you do—in the deepest parts of yourself, you mean it. "It's a reminder of how much you love me. How hard you had to fight to come back to me. I will live the rest of my life loving that scar."

There’s only a moment of pause, a soft transference of feelings too profound for words and too heavy to be carried without help. It’s only a slight pause before he kisses you, deeply, wildly, unrestrained, holding you tight in his strong arms, tight enough to bruise. Maybe it’s so you won't see him cry—the tears not lost to you as they dust your cheeks and coat his lips with the tang of salt. Maybe it's because he’s at a loss for words, forced to find another way to communicate, desperate to show you the height and depth and breadth of his love for you. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. You’ll never be happier than you are when Ren puts his mouth on you.

His tempo slows, the fierce grip of his fingers that search every part of you becoming a soft drift, goosebumps blossoming over your skin in the wake of his gentle hands. You breathe together, in this moment, as your hearts beat in time, and there's no need for words anymore. You’re here, you’re together, you’re safe. You're never letting go.


	16. Escape pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of Kylo and the ballerina!! 
> 
> Bless you, anon! I think I might do a part 3 as well, if that interests anybody 💖 The first part is chapter 13 if you missed it! (Although I don’t think that you have to read it to enjoy this part)
> 
> Requests are closed ✨
> 
> Kylo Ren X Ballerina! Reader pt. 2
> 
> Warnings: infidelity, mild horniness, forbidden love, yearning 🥰

You’re already waiting for him when he arrives on the roof in the middle of the night, the hem of your robe snapping gently against your legs in the wind, and you fold your arms around yourself to stave off a shiver as you peer into the darkness, searching for any sign of him.

Ren watches you from his shadowed hiding place—admires the way you look illuminated by the city glow—before he emerges wordlessly from the darkness. The smile you give when notice him could shatter glass, crumble cities. One smile from you could make his word fall apart. Maybe it already had.

“You’re here,” your whispered words puncture the darkness as you both fall into the familiar silent routine: he removes his helmet, you take off his gloves, and then you’re joined together in a tangle of desperate kisses and wandering hands. There is no time for anything else, no place for emotion, not when each second he has with you is borrowed. This is meant to be an escape.

It was only supposed to happen once. He had been sure that the first time would be the last, but he needed it so _badly_ —after weeks haunted by the memory, the vision of you leaning in close, and then the sound of the blaster echoing through his dreams, ripping you away from him. He had told himself, late at night as sleep evaded him, that he had to know what it was like; only then he could banish the thought from his mind.

He had found you alone at the window of the theatre dormitory, the night that he finally gave in. He still remembers the way you startled, how frightening he must have looked to you in his cloak and mask as he loomed over you through the window. But he had extended his hand to you, his palms sweating in his gloves, beckoning you to follow him into the darkness, and you hadn’t hesitated to take it.

That had been the first time on the roof, the first time he held you in his arms and you sighed like starlight, kissed him and kissed him and kissed him, your hands burning trails and scars against his skin until light had flooded his veins, and he knew that there would be no chance for either of you to turn back.

“I missed you,” you mumble against his lips, and his knees grow weak as you pull him closer, arms wrapping tighter around his shoulders. The hand he’s placed at your waist slips up to your neck as he moves against you, and he finds the edge of your robe, sliding it out of the way to reveal more of your exquisite skin before grab hold of his wrist, staying his progress.

“I can’t.” There’s a pause, and then you pull away, leaning back against the wall behind you; your eyes shiny with tears you don’t feel entitled to. There’s a sharp sting that accompanies the rejection, made sharper because he _knows_ that you want more. This will never be enough for either of you, certainly never enough for him; you’ve found your way into his bones. He wants _more_. He wants _everything_.

The ring on your finger glints possessively, demanding his attention, forcing him to think about why he is being denied the things he wants most. You shift your hand away from his gaze when you notice his staring, swallowing hard, tucking the ring into your other palm before slipping it into the pocket of your robe.

“I’m sorry,” you brush the tips of your fingers over his cheek, and press your lips to his again, a little more reserved, a little less tender, and he kisses you back, but he’s unable to ignore the growing lump in his throat. It’s no use; the spell has been broken. He’s been forcefully reminded that you belong to someone else.

He had gone to see him—your _fiance_ —late one night after leaving you. It had been the same night that he first noticed the weight of the ring in the pocket of your robe, and he hadn’t needed to ask what it was, or who it was from. He remembered all too clearly how he had felt the night you met, watching you spin in the arms of another man, wishing it was him. The word _suitor_ had been crushing at the time, but for some reason _fiance_ didn’t have the same effect.

That night he had stayed on another roof, watching through the man’s window until the first rays of morning had destroyed his hiding place. That night—and many nights since—he had wanted to kill him.

He wants to kill him again, now that he’s forced to wonder if _his_ hands have touched you the same way Ren has, if _he’s_ been privy to the sound of your pleasure, if you’ve let _him_ slip the robe from your shoulders and watch it pool around your feet.

Ren could kill him. He’d like to kill him, but he’s too aware that getting rid of your fiance wouldn’t make you his. As much as Ren would like to slaughter every man in Coruscant who looked at you and thought he could own you, it wouldn’t solve his problem.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” you say, and your fingers trace long strokes up and down his arms, trying to pull his attention back to you. Neither of you can resist this either, the pull to love each other beyond the physical. You could pretend that it was carnal, just a means to an end, but the truth always slips through in these moments.

“Come away with me.” These are the words he’s longed to say, words he’s had to stifle with every parting, words meant for the perfect moment, and maybe this isn’t it. Your lips part with a gasp, your breathing staggers as you begin to shake in his arms.

“Ren, I-” your trembling doesn’t stop, but you don’t try to distance yourself from him, pulling in tighter instead, “I’ve made promises. I have commitments-” you stop there, your hand skimming over the ring in your pocket, a guilty gesture, a reminder that you’re currently breaking one of those promises right now. You shake the thought, but your voice breaks when you continue, “I can’t just run away.”

“I love you,” it’s been a long time since he’s said it, and _never_ like this, but he says the words with meaning, holding your jaw in one of his hands so that you’ll look him in the eyes. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll give you whatever you ask. Be with me.”

It’s too much, he thinks, he’s asking for too much. You have a life here, a family—or an approximation of one—and a future ready and waiting for you. A future with a man who could guarantee your safety, provide for your every want and need. Ren watches, waits, prepared for a rejection that will do more than sting.

Suddenly, you’re kissing him again, kissing him with fervor, with desperation, and every press of your lips is an answer, a resounding and unexpected _yes_. Ren reels, his mind gone blank and his body singing as he takes you in his arms; he can only just manage to kiss you back, to brace his hand against your neck and live for the feeling of your skin warm against his.

The dam that reined in your desperation for each other has broken and there’s no end for your need; entire lifetimes pass before you manage to pull away, your heavy breathing creating little clouds of fog in the cold night air that doesn’t seem to touch either of you.

“I’ll have to come back for you,” he says, pressing another kiss against your swollen lips, “We’ll make plans.”

“I’ll watch for you, every night.” You slip from his grasp as he backs away from you, his eyes trained on your face, memorizing this scene, hoping this memory will carry him through the nights of missing you. He can admit it, now that you’ve agreed to go with him: your arms have never offered him an escape. Your embrace has always felt like home.


	17. Scoundrel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Lol you reblogged a head cannon from @historymiss about kylo and his “scoundrel” skills and it is just so funny to think about, I’d love to read a fic by you about it. Maybe reader is some type of smuggler being hunted down by the first order and they get away but not before they impress each other with shady skills?
> 
> Anonymous asked: Ooh! How about a prompt? “It’s a hobby of mine to prove you wrong” reader to kylo?
> 
> Anonymous asked: kylo x reader “is that blood?” “... no?”
> 
> Requests are closed ✨
> 
> Kylo Ren x Reader (no pronouns)
> 
> Warnings: some angst, language, mentions of sex pollen 😏, mild horniness, not a happy ending 🙁

There's no light at all in your hiding place, just the hard press of metal against your spine and the sound of your own breathing. You close your eyes, not that it changes the much, fill your lungs as quietly as you can manage and then hold your breath, listening closely to the sounds of footsteps as they move past you, the modulated mumbles of storm troopers as they head towards the exit of your ship. It's not easy to track their movements just by sound, but you don't think they found your stash, thank gods. If they all get off your fucking ship, you can be on your way in no time.

"Search completed, sir. No sign of the fugitives." You can just barely hear one of the troopers report to some silent supervisor, and your mind catches on the last word. _Fugitives_? Who were they looking for? Some people would pay a lot of credits for information like that. Despite its chaotic beginnings, today could still be a lucky one. You press your ear closer to the false wall that you hide behind, furrowing your brow in concentration.

"Complete searches of the rest of the ships, they’re here somewhere," there's a second voice now, and as soon as you hear it, ice floods your veins. You'd recognize _that_ voice anywhere. Shit.

Your previous confidence in your hiding place leaves immediately, but you can't move, your sense of self-preservation still convinced that he _might_ slip up this time. You're startled from that delusion almost immediately by a loud pounding sound, and then the panel covering your little shelter gives way to blinding light.

You land on your hands and knees with a loud smack, the impact driving spikes of pain through your bones. Someone—a trooper you assume—is on you immediately, yanking your hands behind your back. As soon as your eyes adjust, he's in your line of sight, filling your view with an expansive blackness.

"You again," he's crouched down beside you, the words almost quiet enough to be a whisper, and said with a kind of reverence that might only exist in your imagination. It's been a long time since you last saw Kylo Ren, but it feels like no time at all.

"We can't keep meeting like this, _Commander_ ," you reply, coating your words in a healthy level of sarcasm to hide any trembling that could break through, "People might think that you're in love with me."

He doesn't respond, because he never does, but he lifts his hand to your face, rubbing his thumb roughly against your cheek, the seam of his glove scraping against your skin. "Is that blood?" he asks in the same even tone, raising his hand to eye level; you can just barely make out the dark red smear against the black leather.

" ... No?" And then after a beat, "well, it's not _mine_." Nothing changes in the man before you, but you hear a modulated snicker from behind, and the trooper mutters an apology when Ren shoots him what you have to assume would be a glare if you could see the face behind his mask.

"Search them," Kylo Ren stands to his full height, and you follow close behind, yanked to your feet unceremoniously by the trooper. Some might find this situation humiliating, being cuffed and patted down on your own ship, but you're able to ignore it rather easily, choosing instead to keep your eyes trained on Ren. He returns your stare, his arms crossed tight over his broad chest, fingers flexing rhythmically against the swell of his biceps. No, being handled like this doesn't bother you at all, but you think it might bother _him_.

Your weapons are removed one by one, and it's a few minutes before the trooper is satisfied, attaching the cuffs to your wrists and giving you one final shove to signal the end of his search. "Should I take them back to the command shuttle?"

Ren stays silent, and your mind kicks in to lightspeed as you try to come up with a plan. If they got you off this ship, your chances of escape would diminish greatly. You'd need to stay aboard, but how? Fighting both of them wouldn't be an option, especially not weaponless. You'll have to make this up as you go and hope things play out in your favor.

"Leave the prisoner with me for interrogation," he says to the trooper, and you stifle a sigh of relief, "I'll need to search the ship again." You try to keep your emotions in check as you watch the trooper walk towards the exit, following him around the corner and out the door with your eyes. It's just you and Ren now. You could make this work.

He breaks the silence as soon as you're alone, plucking the thoughts right out of your head, "you're not going to escape."

"That's funny, I think you said that the _last_ time we ran into each other," you keep your reply light, your tone laden with a healthy dose of mockery so he won't look any deeper. It's not easy to play tricks on a man with powers like his, which is why you've got to keep him distracted, uncomfortable. After all, this is your arena—he'll have to play by your rules.

He takes you by the shoulder, pushing you further into the ship with a shove that's probably meant to be harsh, but there's no heat behind it. "You can't get away from me," he says, more emphatically. His fingers press deeper into your shoulder, a heavy grip to emphasize his point, like that’s all it would take to keep you with him. He should really know better by now. 

You shrug out of his grasp with a little twist, turning to face him in the small corridor, chest to chest, your bound arms sandwiched between you, your own reflection staring back at you through the eyes of his helmet. "I wouldn't count on it, _Commander_. It's become a hobby of mine to prove you wrong." Your voice is barely a whisper, the heat of your breath creating little clouds of fog on his mask—you're closer than most would dare to be. It's dangerous, the way you get in his space, dangerous how you challenge him, but gods, do you like it. 

He chooses to ignore you again, refusing to take the bait, and instead continues his path down the hall, pulling you towards the cargo hold. It's mostly empty right now, with a few scattered transport bins littering the corners—just empty enough to fool any asshole who might try to poke their nose into your business.

"What are you hauling?" Ren asks, unconvinced by your sparse collection, searching the hold with slow, methodical movements.

"I don't know if you could tell, but I'm actually between jobs at the moment," you kick a crate of broken blasters to sell your lie, but it's clear he's not convinced as he walks the length of the hold, searching for any signs of hidden compartments. You take the chance to look around, as well, seeing if there’s anything that might aid your escape, or at least help you get the damn binders off. It’s a waste of time—there’s nothing in here for you, and even if there was, you wouldn’t be able to get to it without Ren noticing. You look back at him, just for a moment, checking to see if he’s distracted enough to ignore your scheming. By then it’s too late—you hear the sound of the panel lifting first, and it's only a second before he's opening the crate hidden beneath, too quick for the cry that rips from your chest but gets caught on the way out.

"Spice, really?" He reaches a gloved hand towards the container of the innocuous-looking yellow powder and your heart threatens to leap out of your throat, your feet moving towards him of their own accord.

"Don't touch that!" The words finally break free as you throw yourself at him—you don't really have a choice. The impact is hard, hard enough to upset his balance as he stumbles backward, catching you in his grasp, his hands gripping at your shoulders to steady you, too. You’re anchored in his arms, but your breathing is coming hard and fast, the adrenaline making home in your veins even if the danger has passed.

"Afraid I might contaminate your supply?" he whispers the question, the words coming low and mocking through the modulator in his helmet. He thinks it's his turn to get under your skin.

"That's not spice," you say, breathing hard, panic still coursing. "It's a highly potent kind of pollen used to, uh, stimulate arousal. Getting even the smallest amount of it on your skin or in your lungs can create an effect that lasts for weeks." He goes still against you, solid as stone, but you can feel his heartbeat running rampant through his body as he realizes the meaning of your words. Neither of you dare to move, afraid of worsening your already precarious situation, even though you’re well out of reach of the container. The tension has sucked all the air from the room and you stutter, trying to bring it back, "there's a king in the Kazyk sector who pays me good money to haul it for him."

"Is it contraband?" His gaze flits from you back to the powder, and then back again. Even though you can't see them, the pressure of his eyes weighs on you, bringing a heat to your cheeks.

"Depends on who you ask. It _is_ expensive, highly coveted, and notoriously hard to transport. It can cause . . . complications when moved, if you're not careful."

"Complications?" You feel yourself flush, your entire body uncomfortably warm—the temperature control on your ship must be malfunctioning. It's only made worse by your proximity to Ren; you can feel his heat passing through the thick fabric he wears, smothering you.

"Do I need to spell it out for you, _Commander_?" You had wanted to mock him again, using his title like that, but the whisper that leaves your parted lips is absent of any ridicule, your words so soft and wanton that it sends a shiver up your own spine. You can't help but wonder if he's blushing under the mask—if his thoughts are currently consumed, like yours are, by images of bodies intertwined, heady moans passed between parted lips, his hands—ungloved—exploring every inch of you . . .

Your wrists tug against their restraints, unbidden. It's a good thing that you're still cuffed, because if they weren't, you're not sure what would stop you peeling back those layers he wears, taking off that stupid helmet, finally revealing his face. What would he look like, laid bare before you? What would it feel like to be encircled in his arms with nothing between you but desire?

You ball your fists, fingernails pressing crescents into your palms as you try to remove these thoughts from your mind, forcing yourself out of his grasp with a sharp tug, trying to breathe again. Gods, what is wrong with you? Some of the pollen must have gotten into the air and made its way into your system. You turn back, hoping to confirm your theory, but the little pile of yellow powder sits undisturbed, and the air in the cargo hold is heavy and still.

"Just put the lid back on it. I'm not hauling anything else," you command, and to your surprise, Ren obeys, replacing the cover on the container gently so as to not disturb the powder beneath. He grabs you again, by the arm this time so that he can keep his distance, thank gods, not that it helps you cool off—the heat stays trapped beneath your skin for much longer than you’d care to admit.

He takes you through the rest of the ship, stopping occasionally to open one of the many hidden storage compartments scattered throughout, cracking locks, breaking codes seemingly without even trying. He finds all of them—even the ones you made yourself, ones you were sure nobody would be able to locate without your help. It doesn't matter anyway; you were telling the truth before. You're not hauling anything else.

You lean against the wall, watching as he rips away the edge of another panel in the floor, finding it empty, and you roll your eyes. "Not to be a dick, but can't people like you just _feel_ if I'm harboring fugitives on my ship?" He looks up at you, and you hope he can’t see the way you’re still shaking, hope he can’t feel any of the shame you’re trying so desperately to hide. You need him off your ship—no more complications, no more interference.

"People like me?" he asks, with the slightest hint of laughter, just barely detectable behind the modulation. So he does feel it—your embarrassment, the leftover yearning that you can’t seem to elude.

You roll your eyes again, as if the movement itself could create the nonchalance you’re trying so hard to mimic. You want to be annoyed at him. You want to be unaffected, cool despite what just happened. But it’s not working. "You know what I mean. Couldn't you just sense them?" 

"I know you're not hiding the people we're searching for,” he admits, sliding the floor panel back in place, “and I found all of these- "he gestures vaguely down the hall, the evidence of his handiwork littered along the corridor "-on my own." It’s hard to be sure when you can’t see his face, but you think he might be _smug_ about it all. 

You furrow your brow, thoughts humming, trying to piece together this interaction in a way that makes sense. When that fails, you resort to mockery. 

“. . . So you've been ripping my whole ship apart for what? Just to show off?” Your heart jumps when you see him freeze—the physical changes slight, but not beyond your notice—a slow smile spreading across your face. You’ve got him now.

“You are trying to show off, aren’t you? I have to admit it, I’m impressed,” he stays where he is as you move closer, the visor of his mask trained on you, his muscles taut like he’s ready to run. Who would have thought that, in this scenario, you’d be the dominant one?

“That’s not-” he stutters—you can hear it through the vocoder, and you laugh, just a short, breathy thing. You shouldn’t let yourself get distracted from the goal at hand, but this is much more fun.

“No need to be embarrassed, I tend to have that effect on people. Everybody loves a scoundrel.” You flash him a cheeky smile, and he bristles, folding his arms over his chest again and standing to his full height. You can see the tension in him, practically pulling him apart. He wants to run from you. He wants to stay. 

“Not me,” he says like he wants to believe it, but you can’t miss the way his voice shakes.

“You especially, _Commander_. The Order and its people are far too proper for someone like you. There aren’t enough scoundrels in your life.”

The silence that follows your words fills the space, leaving little room for air. Maybe you’re hallucinating, but he might inch closer, his fingers twitching, maybe to reach for the latches in his helmet, maybe to bury them in your hair.

The sound of pounding footsteps against the durasteel floor shocks the breath back into your lungs, but even as the trooper dashes into view, Ren doesn’t pull away.

“Sir, there’s a problem,” the trooper huffs, and after a pause, Ren rips his eyes away from you. The trooper hesitates, now, realizing that he’s barged in on what probably looks to him like a private moment. “Uh, there’s a small band of Resistance fighters attacking the troops, we believe they’re here for the fugitives.”

Ren’s immediately on the move, his cloak snapping from the speed of his departure, and you and the trooper glance at each other for a moment before they follow after Ren, and you do too, curious to see the commotion. Despite his limited headstart, Ren seems to have vanished from the corridors of your ship, no trace of him at all, the only sounds echoing through the hallway coming from your own footsteps and the soft jingle of the trooper’s movements. 

_The jingling_. You’re almost to the door before you realize what that sound means, and you want to smack yourself. You can see the keys now, out of the corner of your eye. Escape had never been closer, and you almost missed it. You choose to ignore the voice in the back of your mind that reminds you about what had caused you to become so distracted. You don’t have time to think about it now. You have a plan.

The trooper startles when you yelp, tripping over nothing before you go sprawling, landing on the floor with a clang. You watch him from the ground as he stares back at you, hesitant, glancing towards the exit before his eyes fall to you again.

“A little help?” You sell it, make it look like a struggle as you try and fail to find your feet, but the trooper still doesn’t move just yet, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. Then he takes the bait.

“Thanks,” you mumble under your breath, falling into him as he pulls you to your feet, bracing yourself against the duraplast of his uniform before pulling the keys from his belt with a deft tug and tucking them into your palm.

He doesn’t even notice, running as soon as you're stable, and you follow behind, spinning the key in your palms angling it just right until you hear the snap of release. You catch the cuffs, trying to limit the noise they make as they fall from your sore and stiff wrists. You’re free. 

The trooper exits the ship immediately, off to help his comrades, but Ren is still by the door, deflecting the odd blaster fire. Most of the fighting is far past your ship, on the other side of the yard, but one or two stragglers have decided to aim his way. You watch from around the corner, listen as the sounds of fired shots ends with strangled cries. You move in behind him, getting close, holding the cuffs in place as best you can. 

“Looks like the fight has moved on without you,” you announce your presence, and he turns to look at you, but your eyes are on the saber, burning bright and wicked by his side. “Impressive, but not very useful long range. Blasters are more . . . versatile.”

He gives you a hard look—a searching look—before raising his hand, the fingers flexing in his gloves. Your blaster, the one the trooper pulled off of you earlier, nudges past you on its way to his hand and you jump out of the way, hardly noticing the smooth movement with which he fires, the bodies dropping even from this range as he shoots into the crowd with perfect accuracy.

You’ve never seen him in action like this before. Despite the number of times you had come face to mask with Kylo Ren, he’s never used his powers on you. Something about the realization is frightening.

“We need to leave,” he says, interrupting your thoughts, “back to my shuttle.” He’s looking at you again, head inclined, like it’s a question instead of a demand. And the stupidest part of you wants to go. You force that part of yourself to be quiet. 

He deactivates his saber, drops your blaster and reaches for you, his hand stretched out the same way it had only a few moments ago, but there’s none of the same power behind it.

“I know,” he says, and the cuffs fall from your hands because there’s no point in hiding anymore, “but . . .you still could-” he swallows hard enough for you to hear through the modulator, “-we still could . . .”

You walk towards him, your footsteps slow and even and he trembles, his fingers shaking again for an entirely different reason, and they don’t stop, not when they meet your waist, not when your hands grip both sides of his helmet, trying to find a hold on that against the cold metal.

“I’ll tell you what, Commander,” you say with a whisper, pulling him closer, close enough to rest your forehead against his, “I’ll go with you . . . the next time you catch me.”

It’s a smooth movement, unexpected—first you pull him close, pressing a kiss to the front of his mask, imagining the way his lips must be flushing in response, imagining what it would be like without the ridiculous apparatus in the way. He’s unbalanced, a little surprised, and when you push him back he doesn’t anticipate it, falling, flailing, until he lands with a thud in the soft mud outside of your ship.

“Until next time, Commander!” you call down to him as the hatch lifts, running to the cockpit as fast as your legs will carry you. You’re in a panic as you start up the ship, a shake in your hands that makes it hard to hit the right controls but you don’t stop until you hit lightspeed, trying your hardest to breathe.

You plug in the right coordinates and sit back in the pilot’s chair, brushing your hand across your cheek, picking up the stray moisture that lingers there. You don’t remember when the tears started. You’re not sure how to stop. It seems like today wasn’t your lucky day after all.


End file.
